Cracks In The Glass
by cottonmouth
Summary: Six months after Full Moon, Fast Cars, Sam and Dean are hunting together when the yelloweyed demon makes a reappearance, and Dean is brought face to face with his old life and the reasons he quit hunting in the first place. AU SamDean slash, mentions of c
1. Chapter 1

Summary – Six months after Full Moon, Fast Cars, Sam and Dean are hunting together when the yellow-eyed demon makes a reappearance, and Dean is brought face to face with his old life and the reasons he quit hunting in the first place. AU SamDean slash, mentions of child abuse and violence

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Chapter 1

The baby let out a long wailing cry as his mother screamed. The figure in black didn't turn, standing calmly in the shadows of the dark nursery and watching the plush farmyard animals turn on the mobile suspended above the crib. David Hoyland was six months old, wriggling and waving chubby arms, his tiny face creased and red.

The figure finally turned its head as a crash sounded from within the house somewhere. Michelle Hoyland stood in the doorway, Davie's bottle falling from her suddenly numb fingers and clattering to the floor. Her own face was pale and stretched tense in fear. Before she could see the face of the man? person? standing between her and her child, her body froze against her command and she felt herself being drawn backward to the wall. An unseen force pinned her like an insect on a board and she let loose another inarticulate scream. Her husband Chris was downstairs, dozing in an armchair. She'd seen him on her way back from the kitchen, bottle of warm milk in hand.

The thunder of feet on the stairs gave her momentary hope. Chris was here, he would protect her. And then her own feet left the ground and she felt her body sliding, slipping up the wall as if gravity had reversed itself in her house. Chris couldn't save her, not from this. She struggled against the invisible binds that held her fast, praying her husband would at least get here in time to save Davie, that her son wouldn't be _taken _by this thing that held a human form.

A gunshot rang out, loud in the enclosed space, and two men appeared in the doorway. Michelle heard her husband's shouts, indistinct and far away. A second gunshot like a cannon exploded in her ears and she tried to tell the men that her baby was in the room, that this evil thing was going to hurt him. The black figure seemed to waver in her vision, flickering and spinning crazily. A chunk of the wall opposite was blown away. The bullets were _passing through _this strange person as if he wasn't really there, as if this was all some kind of bizarre nightmare.

The invisible hands holding her lost their grip as the thing stuttered in her vision and she fell to the floor, stumbling and tripping over her own feet. _Davie._ Scrambling forward on her hands and knees, she crawled to her baby, mindless of her own safety. She had to get to Davie. As long as Davie was okay, as long as she could keep him safe, nothing else mattered.

Davie screamed, loud and piercing. The cry powered her muscles and she propelled herself to her feet. The black man was facing off against the two strangers in the doorway, and she ducked past him, snatching up her son and feeling his weight in her arms like a miracle.

"C'mon!" Michelle turned at the gruff voice, seeing one of the strangers beckoning her with an outstretched hand. The other held a shotgun, aimed at the black figure. She ran to him, almost tripping on one of the scatter rugs shaped like a cloud that she'd bought so lovingly in the weeks before Davie was born. The man caught her arm, tugging her brutally forward and out of the room. A flicker of gold caught her eye and she tried to turn, but the man still had her arm in an iron grasp, pulling her away. The second man was behind her and she could hear words being shouted, shots being fired.

She held Davie close, as tightly as she could. He was still crying and she thanked god to hear it. Her son was alive, nothing else mattered.

She almost tripped on the stairs, her legs feeling weak and shaky. The man kept a firm hold on her, guiding her through the dark house. Chris met them at the bottom of the staircase and the man surrendered her to Chris's desperate hold. Her husband was crying and distantly she thought to herself _he's never cried in front of me before._

And then the two strangers were dragging them both from the house, _their _house, the beautiful three bedroom semi they'd bought nine months ago with Davie on the way and their marriage vows fresh in their ears. Michelle felt cold tarmac beneath her bare feet, noted that she was still in her nightgown and the neighbours were probably watching in shock, wondering at the screams and the gunshots. They stopped running in the middle of the street, the five of them; her husband, her baby, herself, and the two men that had saved their lives. A loud _boom_ behind her dragged her attention away from Davie and she turned in time to see the house she'd hoped to raise her family in go up with a burst of furious flames. A black shape caught her eye in the room that had been Davie's nursery and she viciously hoped it was that figure, that terrible black man. She hoped he burned.

Wailing sirens reached her ears. Chris was holding her close, both arms wrapped around her and Davie like he could take the both of them into himself and keep them safe forever. She heard him question the men that had saved them, ask them what happened, what was that, who were they? She ignored their voices, focused only on her beautiful baby, crying in her arms.

When the police and the fire department arrived, asking their own questions, the men were long gone. Chris could only tell them the names the men had given him; Caleb and John.

* * *

"Sammy!" Sam ducked, the spirit's chokehold loosened by the broken iron rung he held, snatched up from the cemetery gates. The boom of the shotgun sounded above his head and he gasped at the air, feeling it cooling the burn in his throat.

Dean was at his side a moment later, pulling him to his feet as he reloaded the shotgun with rock salt. "You okay?"

Sam wheezed a little, coughing out the bad air in his lungs. "Yeah, I'm okay. Where is it?"

"I dunno, bitch got away from me." Dean looked wildly in all directions. His face and hands were dark with dirt and there was a red scrape of blood at his temple. The cemetery was dark and deserted, rows of gravestones like broken yellowed teeth jutting up from the earth. His face was hard and Sam felt a smile twitch at his lips despite the situation. They'd been after this spirit for over a week now, and Dean's pissy mood had been steadily growing with each failed attempt. Privately he thought Dean would make a better teenager than Sam could ever be.

A strange _whushing _sound came from behind them and they turned as one to face the spirit as it rematerialized. Dean brought the shotgun up, firing straight into the things face before it could try to attack them again.

"Get to the grave. I'll keep it occupied while you salt and burn." Sam nodded and made a break for it, his feet slipping slightly in the churned-up grass and mud. Another boom of the shotgun sounded behind him and he kept running, sliding down into the half-dug grave and landing with a thump on the wooden coffin lid. The shovel was still lying by the edge of the mound of earth and Sam reached up and caught it, using it to break through the rotting wood.

The flesh had long since dissolved from the bones in the coffin, leaving them brittle and grey-looking in the dull light. Sam suppressed a shudder and fell to his knees in the dirt and broken wood, hastily shoving them into a pile in the centre of the wrecked coffin.

He scrambled out on his hands and knees, feeling the moist mud seep into his jeans. The salt and lighter fluid waited for him on the undisturbed grass and he liberally doused the bones in both, using Dean's matches to set them alight.

A high pitched scream reached his ears and he turned in Dean's direction, watching the ectoplasmic form of the spirit contort and twist before evaporating with a final wail.

The graveyard was left silent and Sam let out a heavy breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. Dean sagged forward, exhausted by his own fight with the spirit. The older man looked over at him, his face twitching in a weary grin before he lowered himself to the ground, using a gravestone as a headrest.

"Call me when you're done filling in that thing, Sammy. I'mna take a nap."

Sam snorted a laugh. "Yeah, right. Get your lazy ass over here, or I'll stamp mud all over the Impala's upholstery.

Dean cracked an eye. "You wouldn't dare."

"Just watch me."

With an exaggerated groan, Dean heaved himself from the floor, dragging his feet as he made his way through the maze of grave markers toward Sam.

Reaching Sam's side, Dean clapped a hand on Sam's back before turning to face him, his gaze serious for once. "You sure you're okay, Sammy?"

Sam smiled, rubbing at his neck with his hand. "Yeah, I'm good." Dean grinned back, one hand reaching out to squeeze Sam's before he turned to the burning grave in front of them.

"Okay, let's do this shit so I can get to a shower."

* * *

Sam was scrunched up in the passenger seat of the Impala, his long body twisted around itself in the small space. His clothes were filthy and flaking dried mud everywhere. Normally Dean would have made the kid strip to avoid getting his car dirty, but right now he couldn't bring himself to think past _shower _and _bed_.

The damn spirit had taken longer than Dean had expected. He'd hoped to be out of Louisiana before the summer heat became unbearable, but a week later and they were still here, sweating and thanking god for cheap motels with dodgy air conditioning. The heat didn't seem to bother Sam as much as it did Dean, which just pissed him off even more.

Sam shifted in the seat and Dean glanced over. The kid had fallen asleep, despite all his complaints that the car was the most uncomfortable place to sleep in _ever_. Dean grinned to himself, reaching over and dialling down the music a few notches. He took another sideways look as he did it. Sam was adorable when he slept, not that Dean would ever admit that to him. The windows were open, the breeze of air floating in and stroking through Sam's shaggy mud-splattered hair. For a second Dean was tempted to reach out and follow its path with his fingers. But they were approaching the motel, the building lit up like a haven and welcoming Dean in.

He parked the Impala as near to their room as possible. Sam murmured to himself as they stopped, tossing his head so his hair fell in his eyes. Dean poked him in the side and he sat up with a yelp.

"We're here, bitch. Gimme the key, I get first dibs on the shower." Sam snorted air though his nose and slapped the room key in Dean's outstretched palm.

* * *

Showing affection wasn't Dean's strong point. Sam had learned that lesson many times over in the six months they'd been travelling together. At first he'd been hurt and offended by Dean's casual remarks, his offhand comments and the many slaps, pokes, kicks and hits he'd received. But Sam had seen the other man, in the quiet moments when he'd thought Sam was sleeping or engrossed in something else. Dean watched him, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips, and Sam thought maybe it was the only way Dean knew of to express his feelings. It was almost like having his pigtails pulled in the playground, Sam thought with a half-grin.

It wasn't what he'd expected, being with Dean. In his mind he'd constructed a fairytale, the two demon hunters kicking ass wherever they went and being together forever. The reality was completely different. Being in Dean's space twenty-four hours a day, constantly on top of each other and not always in the good way, it grated on even Sam's nerves. Sometimes Dean would drop him off at a local library and Sam would spend hours just breathing his own air, and he knew Dean felt the same. But Dean always came back for him, a sharp grin at the ready whenever they were in public, a kiss when they were away from prying eyes.

It bothered Sam sometimes. They'd never actually discussed _it_, the thing that happened between them at night when Sam would curl up in the space under Dean's arm and Dean would press kisses to his face and lips and hands. On Sam's seventeenth birthday Dean woke him up with mouths pressed together, his body lined up with the other man's. They'd kissed for hours, rubbing together until everything felt dizzy and slow and electrified. Hands had never strayed below the waist, but the matching damp patches on their boxers were evidence enough. Later Dean had taken Sam to a proper restaurant, one with wine lists and menus with tassels in the fold and waiters that called them both _sir_. They'd spent the night smiling shyly at each other across the table and Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good.

The bathroom door was thrown open with a bang, dragging Sam from his thoughts. Dean strode into the room, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He flashed Sam a grin and started pulling clothes from his duffle. "Bathroom's all yours, Sammy."

"You better have left me some hot water." Sam said, pushing his tired body up from the bed. He stumbled into the shower, tossing his clothes in a dirty pile and practically falling into the warm spray.

So maybe being with Dean wasn't _everything_ he'd hoped. Maybe they weren't confessing their undying love to each other every day. It was still pretty damn good, and more than Sam had ever dared to want before. Dean was with him for now, and there wasn't any talk of him leaving.

Sam closed his eyes and tilted his head under the water, feeling the heat wash away the dirt and aches.

* * *

Dean was in bed by the time Sam stepped out of the bathroom accompanied by a burst of steam and hot air. His hair was damp and curling around his temples and he wore an old pair of Dean's boxers low on his hips. Sam's stomach was toned and caramel-coloured, faint white scars now barely visible. Dean remembered the bruises that painted that skin only a few months ago and blinked the thoughts away.

"God, I'm gonna pass out." Sam groaned, flopping forward onto the bed beside Dean. He stretched, joints popping, and Dean watched the roll of muscle under skin.

It didn't feel weird or wrong, Dean thought as Sam crawled up to fit his head in the dip of Dean's neck. He'd thought it would, thought it _should_, even if they weren't teacher and student anymore. After all, Sam was still a kid and he was a grown man of twenty-six. But it felt natural to have Sam snug against him, breathing the same air.

They still ordered motel rooms with two beds. Dean wasn't too sure why, except it spared them that look, the superior _I know what you're going to be doing_ look that assumed so much and made him feel a bizarre mix of guilt and shame and righteous anger. The second bed was used to throw their crap on at the end of the day.

Dean snaked an arm around Sam's waist, pulling the rangy body closer. Sam sighed and pressed into him and Dean couldn't help dropping a kiss on the drying hair. The warmth of Sam's body felt good, a different kind of warmth to the humid air that suffocated outside. For the first few months, just having Sam near him got Dean hard enough to cut glass. He hid it from Sam, not wanting to freak the kid out. For all Sam's other life experiences he was still only seventeen. He didn't need some guy groping him before he was ready for _that_, the next step. It led to a lot of frustration and inappropriate hard-ons on Dean's part before he started waking up early and taking long showers before Sam got up. Now, at least the urge was controllable.

Sam snuffled into his neck and Dean let his hand drift up to stroke through his hair as he succumbed to the exhaustion of the finally completed hunt.

* * *

Sam was dragged out of sleep by the persistent trill of Dean's cell phone playing a high-pitched version of 'Welcome To The Jungle'. He groaned and rolled over, Dean still dead to the world beside him. The early morning light shone through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the room.

"Dean?" Dean murmured into the pillow, his arm wrapping tighter around Sam's waist. "Dean, your phone." When he didn't get a response Sam decided to follow Dean's example and elbowed him in the stomach.

"What?" Dean twisted to look at him, pissed off and sleepy.

"Your phone's ringing." He grunted and reached over Sam, hand flapping about on the table before locating the phone by touch.

"'Lo?" The voice on the other line was loud enough for Sam to hear from his position beside Dean.

"_Dean?_" Sam watched as Dean froze, his eyes opening wide in shock.

"Dad?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Wow, thank you all for reviewing, I'm glad you liked the first chapter :) The next one should be up on Thursday/Friday…

Chapter 2

"_Dean?_" All traces of sleep disappeared at the voice on the other end of the phone, the voice Dean hadn't heard in so long. He blinked. Sam was watching him with a tiny frown creasing his forehead and Dean was suddenly very aware that he was lying in bed with another man, a _boy_, and his dad was talking in his ear. It was one of the most surreal moments he'd ever experienced.

"Dad?" Dean was rather proud that his voice didn't waver, didn't betray any of his confusion. "Dad, what…how did you get my number?"

"_Dean. I-I know it's been a while. I need to see you. We need to talk_." His dad sounded brusque, as always. Ignoring the issues between them in favour of business, as always.

"I…where are you?"

"_Where are _you"

"You don't know?" Dean was honestly surprised. He'd always had the sense that his father was watching him, all through college and later in Elmstead. It had been alternately a source of comfort and annoyance to him. He hadn't thought of John Winchester when he'd made the decision to leave Elmstead, assuming with his admittedly blind faith in his father that John would simply _know _where he was. Would be tracking him with some sort of hunting instinct wherever he went.

"_You've been off the map for the last six months, I assumed you didn't want to be found_."

"That never stopped you before." The sharp words were out of his mouth before he could think them through, hold them back. To his shock, John gave a short bark of laughter.

"_True. But I thought for once I'd respect your wishes. And I've heard talk of you from a few people I know_."

Dean blinked, sitting up in bed and ignoring Sam's questioning look. Of course John would have heard he was hunting again. If someone knew who to ask and where to look, as John obviously would, he and Sam were easily traceable. Which led to the question of what exactly his dad had heard about _Sam_.

"_Dean? I…I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important. I do need to meet with you, son_."

Dean took a deep breath that made him feel light-headed. "I-yeah, okay. Where do you want to meet?" Beside him, Sam cocked his head, an earnest expression on his pretty features.

"_I'm going to be in New Hampshire for a week or so. Can you get there?_"

"Okay…yes sir." He felt himself slipping back into the old familiar role of dutiful son, as if each minute spent talking to his father wound back time. He wished Sam wasn't watching him.

"_Good. Call me on this number when you arrive._"

"Yeah. Bye…dad."

Dean hung up. The phone was once again a lifeless object in his hand, but he couldn't help staring at it, almost in awe. He'd talked to his father for the first time in years, and already it seemed like he'd dreamt it. The mix of emotions roiling around in his gut made him dizzy.

Sam reached out a hand hesitantly, placing it on top of his own. "Dean? What's going on?"

He couldn't answer straight away, couldn't find the thought processes to formulate a reply. And then it occurred to him that he was actually going to _see _his dad, with his own eyes, for the first time in years. He looked up, meeting Sam's eyes.

"We're going to New Hampshire. My dad wants to see me."

* * *

Sam watched as Dean strode back and forth in the tiny motel room, his bare feet padding on the dirty carpet. Dean was biting his bottom lip, his back tense and his hands clenching.

He'd been silent for a while after hanging up with his father, and Sam hadn't been sure what to say, how to help. And then the older man had slapped the cell phone down on the bedside table and stood, his hands rubbing viciously through his hair.

"God, I just don't get it. I don't get _him._ What the hell does he want?" Dean spun to face him. "After all this time, why'd he want to see me _now_?"

He didn't seem to require an answer so Sam let him pace, watching in quiet concern. The sunlight was growing stronger behind the closed curtains and already Sam could feel the cloying heat creeping under the door. He wondered where he was supposed to go while Dean was meeting his dad. Did Dean want him to come along? Should he stay here and wait for Dean to come back? Or maybe this was where they finally parted ways. Sam felt selfish worrying about stupid and trivial things while Dean was clearly so mixed up and unsure of himself.

Mentally shaking himself, he decided it didn't matter right now. Dean needed him to be supportive and helpful.

"Dean. Sit down." Dean blinked like he hadn't even noticed Sam was still there. He followed the instruction like an obedient puppy, sitting on the edge of the other bed so he was in front of Sam. "Okay. Where is he?" Dean cocked his head in question. "Your dad. Where is he?"

"Oh. New Hampshire."

"Okay, so you go to New Hampshire, you meet up with him, you find out what he wants…"

"Wait, wait." Dean interrupted, one hand reaching out across the space between them. "What do you mean, 'you'?"

"What?"

"You were saying 'you'. Sam, you're coming too. Aren't you? I mean, you don't have to…"

"Yeah, as-as long as you want me to. I don't mind, if you want to go by yourself though."

Dean looked horrified. "What? No!" Then he blushed, ducking his head. Sam hid a smile, noticing his own bad habit in Dean's actions and feeling warm inside. "Sam, you do know, don't you? I'm not gonna leave you behind. We're sticking together."

Sam felt his own grin spread across his face.

"Okay. We better get ready, we've gotta get to New Hampshire." Dean stood, the softness in his face replaced by the kind of determined expression more commonly seen in men going off to war. He took a heavy breath and vanished into the bathroom, leaving Sam sitting on the bed.

* * *

The silence in the Impala was deafening as they drove away from the motel, and Dean stuck a tape in the tape deck, not particularly caring which one it was. Sam was beside him, studying a map with rapt attention.

Being with Sam was a confusing experience at the best of times. Being with Sam and on the way to meet his father for the first time in eight years was downright terrifying. Dean still wasn't sure what his dad had heard, whether people knew that he and Sam were…doing what they were doing. But he'd been careful, he rationalised. No public displays of affection, no declarations of love where someone could hear them.

No way that his dad could have found out that the seventeen year-old _ex-student _he was travelling with was more than a friend, more than a travelling companion.

Dean sighed heavily, loud enough for Sam to look up from his perusal of the map with a questioning glance. He didn't say anything, clenching his jaw. They joined the highway out of town, the speeding vehicles on both sides making Dean tighten his hands on the wheel. Sam looked away again, obviously deciding Dean's pissiness was due to his intense and much-discussed hatred of highways, where any fucker could come up a little too close on his car and sideswipe the paint job.

Sam himself was another issue. Dean wasn't good with talking about his feelings, which used to be absolutely fine with him and the parade of girls he went home with. But Sam was something else. The kid needed his reassurance and for the first time Dean wanted to give it. Wanted to be able to sit down and talk honestly for once. But changing was _hard_, and he didn't even know where to begin.

He unwound the window, letting the heat of the day fill the car. Sam touched his arm lightly and he jumped, embarrassed at himself.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." Dean flashed a bright smile that Sam clearly didn't buy.

"Yeah. Sure. Dean, it's okay to be nervous about seeing your dad." The kid was doing his imploring face and Dean felt a tiny but genuine grin pull at his lips. Maybe it was kinda nice to have someone around who knew you well enough to call you on bullshit. "You can talk to me, if you want."

He wanted to talk to Sam. He wanted to tell Sam exactly what was worrying him. Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was; "Seriously, I'm fine, Sam. Don't worry about me."

Sam looked at him a moment longer, searching his broad fake grin. When he realised that was all he was getting, he gave a weak smile and turned his head to the window. The grin slipped off Dean's face as soon as Sam looked away and he went back to concentrating on the highway, ignoring the waves of disappointment emanating from Sam's direction.

The lines of tension striped across Dean's body were evident to Sam, even in the fleeting glances he took from the passenger seat. It hurt a little that Dean wouldn't talk to him. Sam had hoped that after six months together, the older man might stop thinking of him as 'the high school kid to be protected' and start to see him as an equal.

He wondered what Dean's father was like, to have this kind of effect on Dean. From the vague mentions Dean had given, Sam had gotten the impression that John Winchester was a strict parent. But Dean loved him, Sam could tell. On the rare occasions when John was brought up, Dean would go quiet for a few minutes afterward, his lips tight and his eyes soft. Sam wasn't sure if it was regret, guilt, or something too complex to name. He only had the barest idea of Dean's reasons for leaving his father and Dean had never elaborated.

A hot gust of air blew in as a tanker truck passed Sam's side of the car. Dean's visible flinch made him smile, turning away quickly so the other man wouldn't catch it. Dean's obsessive worrying over his car was cute. It was also annoying, especially when he refused to let Sam take over at the wheel on long drives.

The slow and sweaty humidity was getting to him, making his head ache. Sam rubbed at his temple with one hand, squinting at the road ahead and the wavy lines of heat rising from the blacktop. The traffic was slowing, cars and trucks and family campervans all squashing together. The smell of exhaust fumes was strong, and Sam rolled up his window, resting his forehead against the glass. Dean was oblivious in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers along to Zeppelin and staring straight in front.

* * *

The bright neon lights of a motel beckoned as the car approached. They'd been driving all day, and Sam's nagging head ache had rapidly become a stabbing knife of pain in both temples. The highway had been full of people trying to exit Louisiana, escaping the summer heat before it became any more unbearable. They'd been sitting in traffic jams for hours, both of them sweating and irritable. Sam hadn't even tried to talk to Dean about his father again.

"God bless the man who invented air-conditioning." Dean muttered as they swung into the motel's forecourt. Sam agreed wholeheartedly. "I'll get us a room. Wait here."

Sam nodded, instantly regretting it as his entire head lit up with screaming fireworks. The tape deck was still playing, bass guitars a reverberating backbeat and drums pounding out a rhythm on his skull. He hadn't asked Dean to turn it down. His head would still hurt even without the music, and there was no point in making both of them miserable. Especially when Dean was already so anxious about his father. If the only way Sam could help him was by putting up with loud music, then he could do that.

Dean stepped out from the office room, striding back toward the Impala and Sam. Even in the heat, he was still dressed in jeans and a button down shirt. Apparently Dean Winchester didn't do summer clothes.

"Hey. I got us the end room. The lady said there's a bar down the street. I might go see if I can find a pool game or something. You wanna come?"

What Sam wanted was to lie in a dark room for a few hours with a cold compress. He started to nod his head anyway, then remembered that he wasn't with Jim Miller anymore. He _could _go and lie in the room with a cold compress if he wanted. "Actually, I'm kinda beat. Can I just stay in the room?"

Dean looked concerned. "Yeah sure. You okay, you look pale?"

"I'm fine, just tired."

Dean handed over the room keys and stood awkwardly in front of him for a moment, hands pushed into his front pockets. "Uh, okay. I'll see you when I get back." He looked around the deserted parking lot, then reached one hand out to stiffly pat Sam's shoulder before turning and walking away.

The room was comparatively clean, the floors vacuumed and the beds made. Sam dropped his duffle onto the floor and staggered into the bathroom, his head spinning. Splashing cold water on his face helped a little, clearing the fug that drifted in front of his eyes.

He stumbled back into the room and flopped down on one of the two beds. His mind recalled the memories of another motel room, the first he'd stayed in with Dean. The older man had taken care of him for a whole week, feeding him and sitting with him. On the fifth day Sam had been so sick of bed rest that he'd demanded Dean take him out. They'd gotten as far as the parking lot before Sam had to sit down, his muscles weak and shaky and his body aching. Dean had grinned at him, a bright and sunny _I-told-you-so _grin that made him smile back despite the pain.

The wallpaper was stripy. It wasn't helping Sam's head, his eyes drawn to it until it seemed to stand out from the walls themselves, crowding around him in a mess of blue and white. He pressed his eyes closed, seeing the lines still painted on the backs of his eyelids.

He wondered what Dean was doing right now. Probably conning someone out of their money. Sam had watched him work, losing just enough to make his opponent think they stood a chance and then taking a 'lucky' shot that kept them coming back to try and beat him again. He'd offered to teach Sam how to play, but Sam had shaken his head, content just to watch from the sidelines.

A sharp pain like needles in his temples brought him back to the present with a groan. His hands flew to his head, like they could squash the ache between them. Everything around him was blurred, like the heat waves he'd been watching on the highway a few hours ago. The vibrating thrum of a car outside sounded loud, as if he were in a tunnel with the noise echoing around him.

Sam closed his eyes, pulling the pillow from beneath his head and pressing it over his face. It muffled the sounds to a dull rumble and he wanted to cry in relief.

And then the blackness in his vision seemed to open up, shattering into fragments and showing him a scene. _Not this_, he thought, _not again. _

The picture in front of his eyes was a dark room. He strained to see despite himself, trying to make out the features and place them in memory, but it wasn't anywhere he'd ever seen before. It was a child's room, a nursery, the shelves and cupboards stacked with soft cuddly toys in pale colours. Their black button eyes seemed to see him, watching him invade the space with his unwanted presence. The big bay windows were thrown open, filmy white curtains catching the breeze and floating on the air.

Movement in the barred crib caught his eye and he felt himself being drawn closer. There was a baby in the crib, awake and silent. It was dressed in a light blue babygro, wiggling tiny feet in the air. The picture lingered on the child and Sam took in the shiny-soft wisps of hair, the little hands flexing and reaching for the mobile hanging above it. The tinny music of a lullaby was playing as the mobile turned slowly.

A cold rush from behind pressed against him, like water trickling down the back of his neck. Sam wanted to turn and look, but the scene stayed focused on the child and all he could catch was a glimpse of heavy blackness in the corner of his vision.

The blackness moved closer to the baby and finally Sam caught sight of the dark man, seeming to float across the carpeted floor toward him. The man felt unbelievably _wrong_, not allowed in this place of innocence, tainting it with his footsteps. Sam wanted to recoil in disgust.

A woman appeared in the doorway, an angel in a white nightgown, her sleepy eyes confused. She froze upon seeing the man leaning over her child, her mouth opening in a scream. The man turned, and Sam caught sight of his sickly yellow eyes, overshadowing the rest of his face. The woman screamed again and Sam wanted to scream too, to help her, to save her and her baby. But he couldn't move, could only observe as the woman was pinned to the wall beside the doorway, pushed _up_…

Sam gasped, inhaling a mouthful of pillow. He sat up, flinging the pillow away from his face with a violent motion. The room around him was the same motel room, stripy wallpaper and air-conditioning humming quietly. The woman and her baby were gone.

It hadn't happened since he'd found Dean again. He hadn't _seen _things that he wasn't supposed to see. He'd almost disregarded the first time as a dream, something brought on by his injuries and by stress and worry. Besides, it hadn't played out the way he'd seen it, the werewolf hadn't gotten away and the girl hadn't died in the same way he'd seen in his head. It had just been his mind working on the facts, adding them up subconsciously and mixing them with his own guilt until he _had_ to go back and save Dean.

Dean had never asked how Sam had known where the wolf was going to be, or why Sam had finally worked up the courage to leave his father. Sam hadn't told him about the…_vision_. It would just be one more thing, one more thing Dean would worry about every time he was with Sam.

The door banged open and Dean walked in, his face drawn and closed. He attempted a smile for Sam, dropping his bag on the floor beside Sam's duffle.

"Hey. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I was awake already." Sam ran a hand through sweat-soaked bangs, pushing them away from his face. "You were fast."

Dean frowned. "I've been gone over two hours."

Sam blinked. How long had he been out of it, watching some strange woman and her baby get attacked by a yellow-eyed man?

"Are you sure you're okay? You look sick, man." Dean was watching him with concern in his eyes. The dull light from the neon signs outside made his face look older, painting lines where there were none.

"I'm fine, really. Just…lost track of time. How much d'you win?" Dean's face softened a little, a smile removing the tiredness from his eyes.

"Little over two hundred. Shame we can't stick around, there's some real suckers here."

He stepped into the bathroom and Sam let out a heavy breath. Dean didn't need any more burdens, not right now. Sam was the cause of enough of those invisible stress lines already.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you all so much for your reviews, they make me very happy :) I hope you like this chapter, next update should be on Monday/Tuesday if all goes well…

Chapter 3

Sam had been quiet since Dean returned from the bar last night, and he wasn't too sure how he was supposed to handle it.

Maybe Sam was mad at him for some reason? Maybe he hadn't wanted Dean to go to the bar without him. Dean huffed air through his nose and shifted gears, the Impala putting on a burst of speed in response. But Sam would have said something if he hadn't wanted Dean to go, wouldn't he?

Except this was _Sam_, Dean reminded himself, and Sam didn't always make his feelings known. For possibly the millionth time Dean cursed Jim Miller in his head. Fixing Sam after a lifetime of abuse was an ongoing process, and sometimes he forgot just how badly the kid had been hurt. Sam was good at keeping up appearances.

"Sammy?"

Sam sat up straighter in the passenger seat, rubbing at his eyes. "Huh?"

Dean tried to think of a subtle way to ask, and then thought _screw it_. "Are you pissed at me?" He glanced over, trying to judge Sam's reaction.

Sam blinked, frowning a little. "What? Why would I be pissed at you?"

"I dunno. You just…seem pissed" he ended lamely. Christ, he sounded like a girl. Apparently Sam had stolen his balls at some point during the night.

"I'm fine." Sam flashed a smile that didn't quite fit. "Not pissed at you."

"Yeah. Okay." Dean faced the road again, watching the thankfully almost-empty road. And then turned back to Sam a few seconds later. "Are you sure? You're really…quiet." He winced internally as he said it. This talking shit was like having his teeth drilled without novocaine.

"Seriously, I'm fine. Just tired. Didn't sleep too well last night."

"I noticed." Dean sighed heavily. "Sam…"

Sam cut him off. "Can we stop? I'm kinda hungry."

Dean looked over at the kid. He was staring blankly ahead, his face closed. Shaggy bangs fell forward into his eyes, longer than they'd been when Dean first met Sam.

"Yeah. Yeah okay." He bit his lip, resolving to pick the subject up later.

Dean's awkward questioning just made Sam feel even worse. The headache had persisted for a few hours after Dean returned, keeping him awake. Not that he'd have been able to sleep soundly after…that.

He was convinced the vision didn't mean anything. He had enough mental problems as it was, why not hallucinations as well? After everything he'd seen in his life - families attacked by monsters, women torn apart, children hunted and killed - there was bound to be some after-effects.

But what if it were real? What if he'd seen something that was about to happen and he did nothing? He pushed the thought aside. Even if it was true, there was no way of finding this strange woman. All he'd seen was a bedroom, which could have been anywhere, in any state. Hell, it could have taken place in Japan for all he knew.

Dean indicated off the road, turning into the parking lot of a roadside diner. Sam frowned for a second, then remembered his request for food.

He doubted he'd be able to eat much.

* * *

"Sammy?" Sam looked up from his examination of the plastic booth they were seated in, the formica table in front of him scratched and chipped from thousands of previous uses. The waitress stood in front of the table, pen poised over a tiny pad.

"Uh, yeah. Can I have a coffee, black."

"That it? I thought you were hungry?" Dean was watching him with concern on the opposite side of the booth.

"Yeah. Uh, burger and fries." Spending money always made Sam feel guilty. It was never _his _money to spend, from all the fake credit cards to the conned money Dean won at poker games and pool. It was easier to get money now he was with Dean. Before, he'd had to rely on his father for most of his income. Or his father's mail boxes, at least.

The waitress took their orders and walked off with a flash of red lips for Dean and soft eyes for Sam. Dean was watching him and Sam focused his attention on the salt and pepper shakers on the table, idly poking at them with fingertips.

"So how long will it take us to get to New Hampstead?" Sam asked before Dean could start asking how he was again.

"We'll be there tomorrow, tonight if we drive fast. We can stop at a motel though, if you're tired."

Sam glanced up, a smile drifting onto his lips. Dean could be very sweet, in his own clumsy way. "I don't mind sleeping in the car if you wanna get there fast."

Dean raised his eyebrows in an _are-you-kidding _expression, quickly wiped away with a faint blush. "No, you hate sleeping in the car. We can stop."

"For my comfort, huh? Nothing to do with delaying the inevitable." Sam said with a half-smile. Dean grinned and looked faintly embarrassed, as if he hadn't realised his motivations were that obvious.

"Of course."

Sam held his gaze, enjoying the moment of tension-free atmosphere. The waitress returned with mugs of hot coffee, placing them on the table with an exaggerated flourish that involved bending over low enough for Dean and the entire parking lot to get a good look down her top. Sam covered his grin with a hand and wondered what she'd say if he demanded she get her breasts out of his boyfriend's face. Then he wondered what _Dean _would say if Sam referred to him as his boyfriend.

She departed with a smile for Sam that said she thought he was the cutest thing _ever_. It never failed to amuse him. Or Dean, apparently, from the wide spread of teeth he was shining at Sam.

* * *

The motel for the night was run by two old ladies that giggled and called Dean sweetheart. He booked a room and got out of the office quick, before they started pinching his cheeks.

The room itself was decorated in chintz and displayed pictures of watering cans with pink flowers. The bedcovers were pink to match with massive frills along each of the edges. It all made him rather nauseous. Sam hid an amused look as he stepped in the room, and Dean thought it was worth the discomfort just to see the kid looking happy again.

Dean could have driven for another few hours and reached New Hampshire that night, but he wanted some time to himself before he saw his father again. To prepare, or something. Not that an extra night would give him time to figure out what he wanted to say to the man after eight years apart.

It wouldn't seem so hard if he knew what to _expect_. John hadn't seemed angry or upset on the phone, but Dean of all people knew how well John could deceive. Maybe John was having as hard a time as Dean was, nervous about seeing his only family again after so long. More likely the older man was focused on whatever he wanted from Dean, whatever assistance his son could bring to the cause.

Sam was quiet, sitting slouched on the bed with his head down. Dean wished he knew what was going on with the kid today. One minute he seemed like his usual self, the next it was as if his dog had been run over. It was messing with Dean's head, and his head was already screwed up as it was.

He sighed and climbed into bed, tossing an arm over Sam and pulling him down. After a token resistance, Sam allowed himself to be positioned like a doll, snuggling into Dean's side and poking the tip of his nose into the curve of neck just below his jaw with a tiny puff of breath, like the space right _there _was the only place Sam could relax.

Dean slid a flat palm up the back of his shirt, following Sam's spine, feeling each bone and dip and stretch. The incredible heat Sam's body put out made everything seem close and sharp. They were touching from head to foot, every inch of them joined by skin and through thin cloth. Dean wished for a second that he were a little less concerned with Sam's mental health, because he hadn't had a chance to take care of business in the shower that morning and his dick was definitely taking notice of Sam's proximity.

He shifted backward a little, hiding his body's reaction from Sam. The kid made a sleepy noise and nuzzled his jaw again. Dean fell asleep, his head spinning with conflicting emotions.

* * *

"Dad. Just got here. Where are you?" Dean heard the curt tone of his voice, briefly closing his eyes. Hopefully his dad wouldn't notice.

The morning was clear and bright, the sky a warm peach lining the horizon. Dean couldn't remember ever stopping by in New Hampshire before. It was surprisingly similar to Elmstead; large redbrick houses with neat lawns and expensive cars parked outside. They drove past the local school, the car idling along as big people-carriers dropped off children carrying heavy bags and shouting to each other in shrill voices. It was deja-vu inducing, and Dean almost felt as if he should be one of those teachers marching across the parking lot, their shoulders set, steeling themselves in preparation for another day's work.

"_Dean._" John's voice in his ear snapped Dean out of his daze. "_ I'll meet you at the Starbucks in town in twenty. Can you get there?_"

"Yeah, no problem." He hung up. Sam was watching him, eyes shyly peeking out from under his hair.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Dean tried on a shaky smile and Sam reached out a hand, squeezing his arm. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

"I can wait in the car if you want…"

"No, you…you're with me, my dad should…know that." Dean cringed at his fumbling words, but from the way Sam's smile brightened, apparently it was the right thing to say. He started the Impala and headed down pristine streets toward the main town.

Sam wanted to tell Dean to relax, it would all be fine. Wanted to reach out and hug the other man, just to smooth away a few of those tense muscles. But he was pretty sure Dean would laugh self-consciously and shove him away with a slap on the back, sneaking looks to either side to make sure no one saw.

John wasn't in the coffee shop when they arrived. Dean ordered two coffees and they sat at one of the little tables set up outside, one without a stripy parasol, because apparently parasols weren't manly enough for Dean. Privately amused, Sam wondered how Dean ever justified being in a gay almost-relationship to himself if he couldn't even stand the threat a parasol presented to his masculinity.

The thought was pushed aside as the older man began jittering his leg against the underside of the table.

"Dean! Calm down, it's gonna be fine." Dean stopped jittering long enough to shoot Sam a glare.

"I'm _fine_."

"Yeah, okay. Sure. Just…drink your coffee." Dean huffed, his leg bouncing hard enough to spill Sam's drink.

Sam kicked him under the table.

Dean kicked him back, resulting in a minor foot-scuffle that almost upended the table and muffled yelps as they trod on each others' toes. The two women sitting at the next table along looked at them disapprovingly, as if they were naughty children.

"Dean?" The deep voice from above them drew Dean's attention up. As Sam watched, his face closed up. He followed the line of Dean's gaze.

John Winchester wasn't what Sam had expected. The man was tall and broad in the shoulders, his face covered by a greying beard. He was looking at Dean with half-concealed apprehension, but Sam could read the love and fondness he obviously felt for his son, the unbelieving _you're really here _emotion. Obscurely, it put him in mind of his own father and the lengths he would go to, trying to provoke that same response. The endless hunts, the passive submission, the unquestioning obedience to every order.

Dean wasn't speaking, was just staring at his father like he was seeing Jesus walking on water. John glanced over at him and Sam looked down at the coffee-stained tabletop, feeling like an intruder.

His dad was here. His dad was _here_, and smiling at him in that way that made Dean feel like a little kid again. Dean couldn't look away, not for a second. His mouth was attempting to form words, but the sound wouldn't come out.

"Dean. Son. How've you been?" John's voice was deep and warm.

He didn't know how he was supposed to respond. How had he been? After being thrown out by his father, after stumbling through college, work, women, and anything else he could find to distract himself, after screwing everything up _so bad_, and his father wanted to know how he'd _been_?

Dean wanted to break down and cry. He wanted to be four years old again, crawling into his parents' bed after a nightmare and finding warm arms to hug him and tell him everything was okay.

"I'm fine." The words were spoken calmly, spoken like he _meant _them.

"Good." John looked at him for a second longer, then glanced over at Sam. The kid was scrunched up small in his chair, staring at his hands and trying to be invisible. Dean's own issues were forgotten momentarily.

"Dad, this is Sam."

Sam looked up at the sound of his name, his eyes wide and scared before the mask came down and he met John's eyes, mumbling a quiet greeting. "Uh, hi. It's good to meet you."

John nodded at Sam, glancing around and locating another chair. "Can I join you?"

"You're the one who asked us to come." The words were sharp and Dean flushed as they left his mouth. John seemed to find them surprising as well, but the older man didn't say anything as he pulled up another chair.

His father looked older. The grey lining his hair and beard spoke of just how much time had passed since Dean last saw him, physical evidence that made the whole situation real. His face was heavier, creases like crevasses that deepened into a frown.

"Dean, I need to talk to you." A glance over at Sam, who still wasn't meeting anyone's eyes.

"Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of Sam."

John let out a heavy exhalation. "Yeah, I thought so. I take it you boys are hunting together?"

"Yes sir." Dean said firmly, earning a quick smile from Sam.

"I heard you were working with someone." John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and for a second Dean was seized with ice-cold fear like water dripping down his back. What else had John heard about Sam? Did he _know_?

He couldn't know. No one had seen them together, no one knew. Dean took a breath.

"So how exactly did you persuade my son to start hunting again?" John asked Sam. The words were tinged with bitterness.

Sam glanced over at Dean before he started to answer. "It was a werewolf. I needed his help to take care of it."

"Sam saved my life." Dean cut in. "I had to help." He heard himself saying the words, making them sound like guilty excuses, and wanted to bang his head against the table. His dad was suddenly back in his life, and he'd reverted to being eighteen years old, trying to justify every action he made. A part of him recognised John's resentment. A few months with Sam had been enough to convince Dean to hunt again, willingly, while John himself was never able to. But he didn't need to defend Sam's honour with his father. Dean bit his lower lip and forged ahead. "Dad, you didn't come to talk about why I started hunting again. You came to ask me something."

John turned in the chair until his whole body faced Dean. "Yes I did." The older man met Dean's eyes, staring hard like he was trying to find something inside Dean that would prove him worthy.

"I've tracked down the demon that killed your mother. I need your help to destroy it."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much for all your reviews, I haven't had a chance to answer them yet because of problems with email alerts, but don't worry, I will get round to it! The chapters at the moment are coming out a bit more angsty that I had anticipated, so be warned… Next update should hopefully be on Friday…

Chapter 4

Sam followed Dean and his father back to John's motel room, shuffling behind like a lost puppy. He'd offered to wait, leave them alone to talk, but Dean had looked at him with bewilderment, his eyes begging Sam not to leave him and his hand tight on Sam's knee under the table.

The motel was a short walk from the Starbucks coffee shop. Sam watched the people on the street as they passed, each one lost in trivial concerns of their own or just enjoying the sunny day. He felt superfluous, an unneeded concern in the twosome of Dean and John Winchester. No matter how many times Dean said it, he couldn't quite get his head around the fact that Dean _wasn't _doing him a favour, letting him tag along out of sympathy and pity.

They reached the motel and John led them to the far room, unlocking the door.

"Caleb's here too. He's gonna help. He thought he should wait in his room, let us catch up on our own." John said to Dean, and to Sam it was a pointed comment about his presence.

Did John not like him? They'd hardly said two words to each other, was that enough for the man to form an opinion? It'd been more than enough for his own father.

But then John turned to him, a smile on his face that looked like he meant it. "So you boys have been hunting together. That harpy woman down in New Orleans, I hear you took care of her pretty well. I was gonna get down there and do it myself, but I guess you beat me to it." He grinned again, and Sam could see traces of Dean in his face, around the mouth.

"Dad?" Dean's voice saved Sam from having to think of something to say in return. They turned to see Dean sat on the king size bed, his clenched hands hanging between his splayed legs and his back hunched like he was bracing himself from hard winds. "Dad, what did you mean, you've found the demon? How? Where?"

John rubbed a hand through his hair and let his body drop into the waiting chair. Sam shifted, unsure if he should sit or not.

"I've been trying to find it for years. It…there're signs. When it's about to reappear. It took me a while to see the pattern. But now…now I think we might have a chance." He leaned forward in the chair, looking at Dean earnestly. "I need your help, son. We could end this. Finally."

Dean looked back, not blinking. Sam looked away, eyes flitting around the room, out the window, at the floor. Anything to avoid breaking into the intimate moment that he wasn't supposed to witness. The greying walls of the motel were pinned with pictures and news articles, but Sam couldn't focus on any of them.

A loud smack of skin against wood made him look up. Dean had stood, slapping the rickety table beside the bed. His face was white and his lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? You kicked me out, dad! You turned your back on me, let me walk out the door, and now you want my _help_? We haven't talked in _eight years_!"

John stood to meet his son, stepping forward so they were toe to toe. "Dean, I know this is a less-than-ideal reunion, but…"

"No! No buts, dad, this isn't about _us_! It's never about us, it's about your obsession! You might as well have called up Bobby, or Pastor Jim! You don't…" Dean looked to one side, scraping his hand through his hair roughly. Sam could see his eyes shining. "You don't care that it's me. You don't care that I'm your _son_."

John opened his mouth, but Dean was striding for the door before he could speak, throwing it open and vanishing from sight. Sam stood uncomfortably for a second before he could will himself into movement.

"Sam." John's voice stopped him in his tracks before he could follow Dean. The older man looked exhausted and drawn, as if he hadn't slept in days. Sam had expected him to be burning red and furious. "Sam, can you…can you tell him, when he's calmed down…" John trailed off, unsure exactly what it was he wanted Dean to know. Sam nodded anyway. When Dean calmed down, John could tell him whatever it was himself.

Sam stepped out into bright sunlight, momentarily blinded. He looked around for Dean but the other man seemed to have vanished. _He wouldn't leave. He wouldn't leave without me, he said he wouldn't, he _promised…Sam told the nervous voices in his head to shut the fuck up and walked in the direction of the coffee shop.

As he rounded the side of the motel office, he saw Dean.

The other man was slumped against the whitewashed wall, his head bowed. The shade of the building painted him all in stark black against the wall and Sam could see every line of his body as if it were drawn there in charcoal.

"Dean?" He stepped forward hesitantly. Dean glanced up, his shoulders relaxing when he saw it was Sam.

"Sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean to…leave you there." His voice was choked and wet, and as he looked up, the light caught lines of damp tracing his cheekbones. Sam was by his side in three long strides, all shyness forgotten.

"Christ. Why does he always…why does he always have to be like that? I just…" Dean scrubbed at his face with the cuff of his shirt, keeping his head down in an attempt to hide his tears.

Sam reached out and tugged Dean to his chest. Ignoring the feeble protests and Dean's wriggling, Sam locked his arms around the older man tightly, one hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. The hands on his chest tried to push Sam away forcibly once more before relenting and slipping down to rest on his hips; not encouraging, but not denying either. Sam decided to count it as a victory.

Sam's arms around Dean felt at once a blessing and a blasphemy. They were _on the street_, where everyone could see them, _hugging_ like queerboys. Which, he supposed, they were, but that didn't mean they had to display it to anyone who wanted to see. But he still couldn't bring himself to prise Sam off him. Wasn't sure he wanted to, in fact.

Sam's warmth was addictive. His sharp hipbones under Dean's palms were firm and Dean wanted to squeeze, leave brands that said _Dean's property, Dean was here_. His arms ached and it would be so easy to slip them whisper-quiet around Sam's slim waist. But he couldn't, couldn't let himself do it without the safety of the dark motel room walls and the bed sheets that hid them from…

From what? Why was it so important to be _hidden_? Dean had always done it his way, even in his eight-year holiday in the world of 'normal'. He had never given a flying fuck about anyone's opinion of him. Had actively encouraged people to see him in a bad light when it suited his purposes. But this wasn't messing around, this was _Sam_.

Sam and his father. The only two people who had ever really cared about him. Both in the same place, connected to each other through him. He reluctantly disentangled himself from Sam, eyes darting from side to side to check there was no one around before pressing a quick kiss to Sam's lips. Sam leaned into it, and Dean found himself pressed against the stucco wall, Sam's body shielding them from view. He allowed himself to be kissed for a second, savouring the taste of Sam's mouth and the feel of his hands stroking shivers into Dean's skin. Then he gently pushed Sam back, regretting the loss of contact already.

"C'mon, kid, let's go get the car. We can book a room when we get back."

He turned to walk away, but Sam caught his arm.

"Dean, wait." Sam was chewing on his lower lip. "What happened between you and your dad?"

Dean closed his eyes, trying to push away the memories that had been encroaching on his mind since John's sudden phone call. "Sam, can we not talk about this?"

"I…I just thought maybe you'd feel better to talk about it." The kid looked to the side. "If we're gonna be staying here."

He turned and started walking away, suddenly filled with irrational anger. Everyone wanted something from him. Everyone wanted him to give them what _they _wanted, wanted him to be someone different. What right did Sam have to ask him personal questions?

Footsteps caught up to him. Without looking Dean felt Sam's presence at his side, shuffling along to keep pace. The kid didn't say anything and Dean kept his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the glare of the sun burning his eyes.

* * *

Dean dropped Sam off at the motel without a word, handing him a fistful of paper money and driving away. Sam almost expected a squeal of tires on blacktop and a cloud of dust in his wake.

He booked a double room on autopilot, ignoring the curious glance of the woman in the office, obviously wondering what a kid like him was doing booking a motel room by himself.

God, why did he have to say anything? Obviously whatever happened between Dean and his father was his own business. But he couldn't quite stamp down on the niggling wish that Dean would share with him. The older man knew everything about Sam, every shameful secret. He wanted to know Dean in the same way.

Sam scuffed his feet in the dirt of the parking lot. He could go and wait in the room, but the empty space was just another reminder of how he'd screwed up.

"Sam?" For a second he thought Dean had come back for him, to forgive him. But when he turned the figure walking toward him was not his travelling companion-slash-kind of boyfriend.

John Winchester looked around, a frown creasing his forehead. "Where's Dean? Didn't you find him?"

"Uh, no, I found him. He just…he's gone for a drive. To clear his head." Sam sounded defensive even to himself. But John just nodded.

"Are you booking a room?"

"Already did."

"So you're both gonna stick around?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Sam wanted to ask John what had happened between the two of them, why Dean had gotten so upset. But Dean didn't want him to know, and going behind his back would just hurt him even more. He couldn't imagine ever yelling at his own father like that. Jim would have beaten him into next month for backtalk.

John coughed, bringing Sam's attention back to the present, grounded in the hot and sticky parking lot. He tried to think of something to say, something that would make John like him while simultaneously proving his unwavering support to Dean.

John beat him to it. "How'd you meet Dean?"

Sam blinked, thrown off by the abrupt question. Apparently John realised, shuffling his booted foot in the dusk as if he was embarrassed. "I mean, six months ago I heard he was quite happy working at the school. And then suddenly he disappears and pops up in the hunting world again, with you."

"I, uh, I was a student. At the school. I was after the werewolf, and I happened to run into Dean. We hunted it down together."

"So, he just decided to start hunting again? Just like that?" Sam heard the real question behind the words, the _how did you get my son to do in a flash what I've spent my whole life trying to convince him to do_. He realised that maybe John was a little jealous of him.

"Well, it wasn't really that simple." Sam hoped John would drop the topic. He wasn't ready to talk about any subject too close to that of his father, not yet. Maybe not ever. "There were reasons."

The crunch of grit under tires made both men turn to the entrance of the parking lot. It wouldn't be Dean, Sam knew, but he couldn't help the rising hope that was dashed at the sight of the dirty blue Honda. The car broke the line of their conversation though, and Sam mumbled an excuse and started to walk away, toward the motel room.

As he reached the door he heard John call his name once more. With a sigh he turned, hoping the older man would take the hint and leave the unended discussion alone.

"Sam. I just wanted to ask, what's your last name?"

"Miller." John's reaction was interesting, a narrowing of eyes like he was trying to remember something. "Why?"

Sam suddenly felt terrified that John knew his father. They were both hunters, it would make sense.

Face flaming in shame and embarrassment, Sam didn't wait for John's reply, unlocking the grey motel room door with trembling hands and practically falling inside, slamming it on the world behind him.

* * *

Dean drove away from the motel with no clear destination in mind. He didn't even know what he was angry about anymore.

Swinging left into the first street he passed, he pulled over to the side of the road. The street was filled with neat semi-detached houses, each one painted a different pastel colour and displaying a neighbourhood watch sticker in the window. Dean looked around at the picture of unfettered domesticity and wanted to vomit. God, how could he ever have aspired to this?

Being on the road made him happier than he'd been in years, perhaps ever. Just him and his car, the windows open and cool air blowing in and the motor thrumming. And a shaggy-haired kid with a sweet smile sitting in the passenger seat.

How could he have walked out on Sam?

The kid was just asking a question. It wasn't his fault Dean had all his emotional issues and baggage. He was just trying to help.

Dean slapped his outstretched hand against the steering wheel. It stung, a prickled line across his palm.

After a few minutes more, he started the car up and drove back in the direction he'd come.

* * *

Sam's phone vibrated in his pocket and he fished it out with one hand. He was lying flat on his back across the bed, trying to figure out an excuse to explain Jim Miller to John. Dean's father would ask, maybe even contact the other man. Then his whole sordid story would come out and Sam's shame would be complete.

"Sammy." Dean's voice in his ear brought a relieved smile to his face.

"Dean. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry before…"

"No, Sam, you didn't do anything wrong. Look, what room are you in?"

Sam heard the distinctive sound of the Impala outside and it felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. As long as Dean was on his side, he could deal with any problems his father might pose.

Dean stepped into the darkened room, flicking on a light as he went. He wondered why Sam hadn't pulled the curtains back, and then he saw the kid. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He looked as if he was going to be sick.

"Dean, I think your dad might know who my dad is."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Your dad. He asked me what my last name was, he definitely knew something." Sam got to his feet, his eyebrows creased in worry. "What if he knows him? What if they're like, friends or something?"

Dean took a breath, trying to process the sudden unexpected information. "Sam, calm down. If they know each other, we'll deal with it. And you'd have met him before, right? I mean, your dad took you to meet with other hunters, chances are if they knew each other well you'd have seen my dad around. Besides, no offence, but I doubt my dad would be too friendly with someone like your father." Privately Dean wondered. John would do anything, cross any line to get his vengeance. If he'd come across Jim Miller, maybe he wouldn't have been as discerning as Dean was. But his dad still knew right from wrong. He was a good guy, and even if he knew Sam's father, he wouldn't sell Sam out.

Sam sighed, his panic visibly deflating a little. "Yeah, I guess. But still, what do I say if your dad asks?"

"Whatever you want to. He won't push you. My dad's a good guy," Dean smiled bitterly as he spoke "most of the time anyway."

Sam looked at him with that intuitive gaze, his head tilted to one side. But he didn't ask any questions and Dean wondered if it was a good thing.

"Sammy, look." Dean's eyes slid to one side, staring hard at the ornamental vases lined up along the single chest of drawers. When did anyone ever use drawers in a motel anyway? "I, uh, I wanted to say, about before. I'm sorry. It's just…a bad subject for me."

"That's okay. I'm sorry too."

And Dean wanted to tell the kid to stop apologising for everything he did. But he wanted _off _this subject. "So, didya leave me any hot water?"

Sam was watching him warily. "I haven't taken a shower yet. But, uh, I think you should go talk to your dad." He paused, waiting for an explosion. When none came, he continued. "If we're gonna stick around and help him with this demon, then we should know what we're up against."

He closed his eyes, remembering fire and screaming. Christ, why did all his problems have to come at once? "Yeah. You're right."

* * *

Caleb answered the door to John's motel room, and Dean stared at the other man for a second. He'd known Caleb pretty well back when he was travelling with his dad. Caleb had been one of the good guys, always willing to help a fellow hunter out. Dean remembered being twelve and idolising the older man for a year, insisting his hair was cut in the same style and copying the all-black clothing. John had met up with the other hunter a few times and Dean had been allowed to ride up front in Caleb's black truck, bopping his head to then-unknown metal music playing on the tape deck and feeling so _cool_.

Now he saw the other man and felt faintly surprised. Caleb was still young, but he'd gained a thick scar along one cheek, and the once-long mess of hair was now shaved to the scalp. Dean had a few inches on him in height and his first thought was _shouldn't he be taller_?

"Dean! Man, how've you been?" Caleb grinned wide, the scar crinkling and distorting his face. He pulled Dean into a rough hug, slapping him on the back once before letting him go. Dean smiled in return, suddenly grateful Sam had stayed in the room. Not that the kid had anything to be jealous about, but he knew how girls got when he hugged other girls in front of them.

"Hey Caleb. It's been a while."

"You're tellin' me. Your daddy's gone for takeout. Didn't think you'd be back to see him so soon."

"Yeah, well. Maybe it's for the best, him not being around right now. I just wanted to know what's going down."

"Sure. C'mon in." Caleb stepped back, waving Dean inside.

Dean hadn't noticed the papers pinned to the walls during his first visit a few hours ago, the articles and pictures and scribbled notes covering every available surface. It was just like his dad, and Dean suppressed a nostalgic smile. Just like old times.

"Well, here's what we got, and despite what John might say, it's not a whole lot. It's enough to track the bitch, and we've made it lucky a few times, but mostly that's all it's been; luck." Caleb shook his head, his grin turning shadowy. Dean bit the inside of his mouth. Of course John would tell him it was practically a dead cert. It was like he had some sort of blind spot where this demon was concerned.

"So what do we have?"

Caleb picked up a few scribbled papers, handing them to Dean and sitting on the overstuffed mattress. "Cattle mutilations, electrical shorts, a few other signs. See, here's the thing, this fucker's tricky. It goes after families with kids," he paused, glancing sideways at Dean. "We don't know how it selects them yet; John's workin' on some theories with that, but mostly it waits 'til they reach six months. Then it…appears, in the house. And it usually ends with the mother, being…"

"Pinned to the ceiling?" Dean snorted a sharp laugh. "Yeah, I get the picture. So what's it got to do with the kids?"

"We don't know. We just know to follow the signs, look out any kids that have a six-month birthday comin' up, and bust the demon's party. It's worked out for us a few times, but we've gone wrong a few more. Mostly, we're just flyin' by the seat of our pants."

"And my dad couldn't have put this together back when my mom died?"

Caleb stood, coming to stand in front of Dean with an expression that was obviously supposed to be comforting. To Dean it felt patronising. "That's another thing. So far as we can tell, the evil shit hasn't been _around _to catch for the last decade or so. It made a few appearances that we can tell, but it's only recently that it's started up again."

Dean looked blankly at the sheets of paper in his hands for a long moment. They had practically nothing to go on. But of course John wouldn't see it that way.

"That's why we're in town now." Caleb continued, unaware of Dean's mutinous thoughts. "There've been signs that it's after another kid. Tomorrow night's when it's goin' down, according to your daddy. I think he was hoping you'd wanna be a part of it."

Dean looked over the room, the years of accumulated research and clutter. The neatly arranged guns, all polished to perfection, lined up on the table like they were waiting for a military inspection. "Do we even have a way of killing it?"

"John knows of a gun. But we don't know where it is, even if it's still around."

"So we're going after it, with no way of killing it and no way of knowing it'll be where we hope it will be." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. "Does he know how stupid this sounds?"

Caleb chuckled. "Yeah, well, you know your daddy. 'Sides, we can't just do nothing."

Dean nodded wearily. God, he needed a shower and a long nap. "Okay. Well, tell him I'll be by in the morning."

Caleb stopped him before he stepped out the door. "John tells me you got a kid with you?"

"Sam. He's not a kid, he's seventeen. He's a hunter." It came out brittle and defensive. He really needed to sleep for a few hours, put everything in perspective.

"He gonna be sticking around too?"

Dean turned to Caleb. All he saw in his eyes was honest curiosity. "Yeah. We work together."

"Okay. Make sure you bring him by in the morning, I wanna meet the kid who can put up with Dean Winchester for six months and not kill him."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much for all your reviews, I really appreciate everyone who took the time to comment :) Here's the next chapter, and in advance, I'm sorry for the angst! Next update should be on Tuesday/Wednesday…

Chapter 5

Dean had been gone for an hour, long enough for Sam to take a shower and flick through all of the crappy cable channels three times. After watching five excruciating minutes of Sex And The City, in which the redhead discovered she had Chlamydia and the blonde chick angsted over whether or not some man could be considered her 'boyfriend' (Sam felt some sympathy for her, being in the same position) he gave in to his urges and picked up his cell phone. Before he could press dial, Dean strode into the room, swinging a bag in one hand and holding some papers in the other.

"Dude, you watch Sex And The City? Seriously?"

Sam blushed and changed the channel. "I was just flicking through."

"Sure you were." Dean winked.

"So, did you talk to your dad?" The change of subject wiped the smile off Dean's face, replacing it with a serious look, and Sam almost wished the other man would go back to mocking him. Dean put the bag on the wobbly table and sat down on the bed next to Sam, holding the papers out to him.

"Dad wasn't in, but I talked to his friend Caleb. This is what we've got at the moment."

Sam looked through the paper, frowning. There didn't seem to be much to go on. "This is all?"

"Yeah." Dean snorted and looked away. "Apparently Dad got ahead of himself a bit."

"Well, it's something, I suppose." Sam said, trying to placate him. "We've had less."

"Yeah I know. But still, he could've told us this over the phone, we didn't need to come all the way down here if he doesn't even know how to kill it! There's no point in us being here."

"Dean. You know you wouldn't say that if it wasn't your dad." Sam said quietly. He expected Dean to blow up at him, but the other man just sighed heavily.

"Maybe. But it doesn't change the fact that we probably won't get the demon."

Dean sat next to Sam, watching the TV blankly for a few minutes. The signal was terrible, the picture flashing on and off. Sam noticed he still hadn't pulled the curtains and considered getting up to do it. But Dean's arm was warm against his and if he slid his shoulder down just _so_, he could almost rest his head against Dean's neck. The curtains could stay closed. It wasn't like there was much to look at outside anyway.

Dean broke the silence first. "Oh, I forgot. I picked us up some KFC for dinner. It's probably cold now though." He said, embarrassment creeping into his voice. "Sorry."

Sam thought about saying he wasn't hungry and staying where he was, but at that moment his stomach broke out in a loud growl. He sighed and got up, bringing the bag back over to the bed to share with Dean.

* * *

They ate in silence, both pretending to watch the TV. Dean's mind whirred like clockwork, thoughts spinning round and round in his head until he was dizzy from the constant repetition.

He was surprised to notice the darkening shadows painting the walls. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners and there were patches of damp creeping up onto the ceiling. Dean wished that they could afford to stay somewhere nice for once. Somewhere where they wouldn't have to worry about catching pneumonia from the damn _room_.

Sam was unsuccessfully holding back yawns beside him and the day suddenly caught up with his body, tiredness almost knocking him out where he sat like a physical blow. Dean thought briefly of showering, and then decided against the idea. He was comfortable and warm and Sam was sitting beside him making sleepy noises.

"C'mon. Bed. We gotta be up in the morning to talk to my dad."

Sam mumbled something he took to be agreement and started wriggling out of his jeans while laying flat on the bed. Because apparently the effort it would take to stand up and remove them was too much for the kid. Unfortunately the wriggling managed to dislodge Sam's boxers as he pulled the jeans down his thighs, flashing soft curls of pubic hair before he adjusted them. Dean blinked, awake suddenly, staring at the waistband of the navy boxers as if he could will them away with the power of his mind and wondering exactly when other guys' cocks became a turn-on for him.

Sam was oblivious to Dean's thoughts, continuing his unintentional striptease. The hoody was unzipped and tossed carelessly to the floor, shortly followed by the grey undershirt, until he sat on the bed in boxers. It took a while for Dean to notice Sam staring at him with an inquisitive frown, and he realised he hadn't gotten any further than unzipping his fly.

He blushed hotly, hoping the dim light in the room concealed his face, and quickly stripped off his clothes. Sam pressed into him as soon as his tee shirt slipped from his fingers and the smooth skin of the kid's chest against his made the breath catch in his throat.

It felt like they were back in Elmstead, dancing around each other in some elaborate mating ritual, avoiding the catch of the other's eyes in case anyone noticed. And this time it wasn't Dean's job on the line. This time there was nothing to worry about.

Except his dad was a few rooms down and Dean _knew _John wouldn't barge in without knocking like he used to when Dean was a kid, but the image of John Winchester catching his son in an intimate embrace with a seventeen year old _boy_ persisted in his mind.

Sam didn't seem to notice anything wrong, bending down and bringing their lips together in a kiss that chased shivers up and down Dean's nerves. It never registered that Sam was taller than he was until they were like this, until the difference in height was pronounced by Sam's ability to overwhelm him in sheer size.

He kissed back, carefully licking into the other man's mouth and tasting peppery sparks and the lingering flavour of chicken. Dean's hand curled itself in Sam's long hair without his permission, holding him close. Sam's clever fingers stroked over bared skin, and he noticed distantly that their bodies had somehow slipped down the bed until they were lying side by side.

Trading slow kisses like they were underwater, like they had all the time in the world to just make out. The room and its damp patches and smelly mattresses seemed to fade away and Dean wondered when, if ever, he'd last kissed a girl like this without it being a prelude to something more. With Sam, making out _was _the main act. Sam kissed like it was everything and Dean found himself enjoying the simple act more than he could ever remember enjoying sex with a nameless stranger. It was intimate and tender and the touch of Sam's fingers, somehow still soft despite the gun calluses, was like a gift.

Sam slipped closer, moving them to the centre of the bed and pressing together until they were joined from chest to feet. Dean felt his body responding and tried to push his hips back. No matter how much Sam enjoyed the making out part, he wasn't going to force him to go further, not until he was ready. _And legal_, Dean's mind whispered.

The kid seemed to have other ideas though, entangling their legs and trapping him where he was. He could feel the evidence of Sam's own arousal and his thoughts drifted back to Sam's seventeenth birthday, the only time Dean had let himself get so carried away around the kid. _Sam didn't complain_, the traitorous voice in his head chimed in again. _Sam enjoyed it just as much as you did_.

Dean allowed himself to revel in the thought for a second, the remembered arch of Sam's back against his body and the soft gasps he'd made into Dean's collarbone. The feel of Sam under his hands had sent Dean over the edge seconds later and he'd been cursing himself, sure Sam would pull away and run off. But the kid had just looked at him with big eyes and a tiny smile playing around the corners of his lips, looked at him like he was _grateful _to Dean for doing _that_ to him. And Dean had smiled back, disregarding the fact that he took advantage of Sam's innocence in favour of being thankful that he hadn't ruined everything. _And thankful that you got off, can't forget that_.

Dean shoved Sam away sharply. The kid rolled onto his back and pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at Dean in shock and confusion.

"Dean, what…"

"We should sleep, Sam." Dean cut him off curtly. He rolled over onto his side, facing away from Sam and his hurt look.

"Dean, did I do something…"

"It's not you. It's…" Dean bit his lip hard enough to break skin. He could feel Sam's eyes still on him, and he flipped over again roughly. "Look, you don't need me taking advantage of you right now, okay. So just…"

Sam ducked his head, the shadow of his hair covering his expression. The darkness of the room was claustrophobic all of a sudden, confining them both to the tiny space of the bed.

"Dean…"

"Just sleep. Okay, Sammy?" He tried to smile, but his own stupidity was playing on his mind and it came out plastic and wrong. Instead he reached out a hand and brushed it through Sam's bangs, feeling the tense of muscles.

With a heavy sigh, he flopped down and closed his eyes. After a while Sam did the same.

* * *

Sam was dragged from sleep by a banging noise. He rolled over with a groan, half-reaching for his cell before he realised someone was at the door.

The bed around him felt cold and he stuck a hand into the space where Dean should be, wanting to feel warm arms encircle him, just for a second. Except no matter how far he reached, he couldn't find the second body. Frowning, he shoved himself up, blinking blearily to clear his head. Dean wasn't anywhere in sight, and he panicked for a moment. The banging started up again.

"Jus' a minute!" Dean's voice, slurred with sleep. Coming from the other bed. Sam sat up quickly, his head spinning with the movement. Dean's tousled head appeared in his view, poking out from under a burrow of covers. On the _other bed_.

"Dean?"

Dean looked over at him, his cheeks reddening in a faint blush. "Uh, hi. I'll, uh, get the door." He got up and Sam saw that in addition to switching beds, Dean had also put on a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt. Like he was afraid Sam might molest him in the night if he didn't put as many obstacles in front of him as possible. Sam felt like he was going to be sick.

He had pushed too far. He had just been trying to show Dean he was okay, that he wanted everything the other man did, but apparently he'd read it wrong. Dean didn't want anything from him.

Dean could feel Sam's hurt and confusion even with his back turned. But the kid didn't understand. Couldn't know how hard it was to resist when he was faced with all that smooth skin and chocolate coloured hair. And Sam's _eyes_, they were ridiculous. Dean had seen them darkened in lust, and he couldn't get the image out of his head, not when they were tangled together close enough to be one person. He couldn't trust himself with Sam.

He opened the door, letting in the morning heat. The clear day bathed the scene in pink light, making everything feel rosy warm. John was standing on the other side, clearly uncomfortable and apprehensive despite the blank face he was wearing.

"Dad. Sorry, we were just getting up." Dean stepped aside, giving John a clear view into the room. _Nothing to be ashamed of going on in here. _

Sam practically leapt out of his bed, mumbling something about a shower and disappearing into the bathroom, almost catching his shoulder on the doorway.

"That's okay, boys. I'll wait for you in my room. Caleb said he caught you up on the situation?"

"Yeah." Dean said shortly. "We'll be right there."

"Good. We've got a lot of planning to do and not much time. I've narrowed down the list of possible victims to seven. The demon comes tonight, and we'll be ready for it."

With his announcement delivered, John turned and walked away, leaving Dean to wait in silence for Sam to finish in the shower.

* * *

Sam couldn't concentrate on anything that was being said around him. Dean didn't seem to have any such problem, chiming in with ideas and asking questions like there wasn't a huge invisible elephant in the room between the two of them.

They'd been in John's room for hours and he hadn't said more than two words. The only thought in his mind was Dean, and that image of Dean pushing him away like Sam was something disgusting. He _was _disgusting, he thought. He was just a little kid, Dean had told him often enough. Maybe the other man was hoping he'd take a hint. Dean was too nice to ask him to leave in actual words.

God, Dean must hate him. Every night for six months Sam had latched onto the older man, pushing his abusive father in Dean's face so it was impossible for the other man to refuse him. No wonder Dean had never said he loved Sam. The whole time, their entire relationship, it had just been another fantasy constructed in Sam's mind.

Sam considered getting up and walking out, just leaving so that Dean didn't have to look at him anymore. It would feel like ripping a knife out of a festering wound. But the masochistic part of him wanted to live with the wound, just for a little longer, just so that he could imprint Dean's face in his mind deep enough to keep him going for the rest of his short and Dean-less life.

He couldn't leave, not until the job was done. It was the least he could do, a tiny thing to try and repay Dean for everything he had done. To try and make up for his suffocating and unwanted affection.

"So we'll check out these names at the hospitals. Caleb, you stay here and try to get hold of the families. We'll need to know whether they're planning on staying in tonight." John's voice broke into Sam's thoughts and made him sit up straighter.

"Okay." The shaven-headed man nodded once. "Shouldn't someone be trying to trace this gun down as well? I mean, whatever, but it might be nice to have something that actually works against this bitch."

"We should focus on the situation for now. We can worry about the gun later." John's tone was final, an order. It was so familiar and yet so different from Sam's father's orders.

"Sure, but still, if we knew where it was…"

John sighed wearily. "Fine. If someone stays here and helps, you guys can take care of that too."

"I'll stick around here." Sam spoke before he realised he was going to. The three men looked at him in surprise, like they had forgotten he was there. He noticed that although Dean was staring in his direction, he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes.

"You sure, kid?" John asked, his voice deep and smooth.

"Yeah. I'd be more useful here anyway. People don't tend to trust seventeen year olds with confidential information." He plastered on a fake grin that felt sore on his mouth.

"Cool." Caleb stood up, slapping him on the shoulder. "Me and the kid'll take care of it."

* * *

Leaving Sam behind in the room with Caleb felt like a betrayal of some sort. Dean had been looking for an opportunity to talk to him alone, to explain himself somehow. Unfortunately his dad had other ideas, dragging him out to charm receptionists and hospital staff. Right now he really couldn't care less about his dad's mission. He just wanted to _fix this_, make it so Sam didn't hate him, or worse, blame himself.

The kid had looked so pale and lost, and it made him feel like he'd been punched in the gut.

He could fix it. It would all be fine, he'd take care of it when he got back. Sam would understand after he explained. Dean hoped.

* * *

"So, how long've you been hunting?" Caleb was sitting amongst piles of paper, holding a brown leather journal in one hand. Sam had taken a peek, seeing pages of notes and scruffy drawings in the same cramped handwriting.

He skimmed through pages of type on Dean's laptop, looking for any words that related to the case. "Uh, since I can remember. My dad's a hunter." Sam sneaked a look at Caleb's face over the laptop.

Caleb didn't react outwardly to Sam's words.

"Yeah? How'd you and Dean get together? Heard you were the one that got him back into hunting."

The mention of Dean was like a handful of salt being rubbed into a cut. Sam spoke anyway, hoping his voice sounded steady. "We met while he was working at Elmstead High. There was a werewolf."

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. You guys blew up like, half a street!" Caleb grinned up at him from the bed.

"Yeah, well, after that I guess Dean decided teaching wasn't what he wanted to do." But what if Dean didn't decide that? What if Dean was just fine with teaching for the rest of his life, and Sam pushed him into leaving like he pushed him into everything else? Sam bit his lip, hard.

"Never saw Dean as a teacher, myself." Caleb continued, oblivious. "Didn't seem like his kind of gig. He always liked the hunting. I guess his daddy was just a little too strong with him. Wouldn't let him grow up, you know?"

Sam frowned, wanting to hear more about the side of Dean he hadn't been around for, in spite of his resolve to let him go.

Caleb stood up, stretching his arms up above his head with a groan. Joints popped and clicked. "I can get Dean's point. John _can _be kinda overwhelming, especially when he gets into his flow. Doesn't much like hearing other peoples' opinions, 'specially when they're not agreeing with him. Coffee?" Sam blinked, nodding as Caleb gestured to the coffee-making supplies on the counter top.

Caleb seemed like a decent guy. He'd welcomed Sam into the room earlier with a bright smile and a back slap that nearly toppled him to the floor, telling him he was glad Sam was helping out. And he'd really seemed to _mean _it. It made Sam feel like less of an unwelcome intrusion in a hunt that belonged to John and Dean. Sam felt sorry that he wouldn't be able to keep in touch. There were other nice guys out there willing to help out a hunter, but they were few and far between.

"So, kiddo, what's up with you and Dean?" Sam flinched, his head spinning to face Caleb. The other man was looking at him with a knowing grin.

"Wh-what?"

Caleb's expression turned innocent. "Just seems to me that you guys have a lot of tension going on."

Sam's heart pounded in his ears and he wondered how much Caleb knew, how much he'd guessed. His mouth opened wordlessly, denials dying on his tongue.

"Hey, don't think I'm intruding. Just saying what I see." He walked over, placing a cup of steaming coffee on the desk next to Sam. "Tell me to shut up if it's none of my business."

"N-no, there's nothing going on." Sam stuttered, clenching his hands together under the table to keep them from twitching.

"Okay. Well, like I said, none of my business."

There was silence in the room for a few minutes, Caleb sipping hot coffee behind Sam and looking over his shoulder at the notes displayed on the laptop. The room was suddenly stiflingly hot, choking up Sam's throat and making his shirt feel sticky on his back.

Finally the words broke free of him. "So, uh, what tension?"

He turned to stare at Caleb, who lowered the coffee mug, affecting a politely confused face. "Hmmm? What's that?"

"You said there was tension. You could, uh…"

"Feel that? Yeah, from the moment you guys walked in." Caleb patted him on the shoulder. Apparently the man was the tactile kind. "Look, I dunno what it's usually like with you guys, but I'm guessin' you don't always sit around looking like someone's ripping out your guts through your asshole. If you do, I applaud you both for not killin' yourselves yet."

Sam felt a tiny bittersweet smile creep onto his face. "Yeah. Uh, I just…found out some stuff this morning. About how Dean…feels about me." He looked down at his hands. "I didn't know, before. It…changes stuff."

Caleb nodded sympathetically. "Well, I'mna take a guess and say you're in love with the guy."

Sam looked up in a hurry, his stomach clenching painfully. It was that obvious? God, did he walk around with it written on his face?

"Don't worry, kiddo. I'm not judging you. Know how it feels, actually. I done the whole unrequited thing myself a few times."

"Yeah, well. I just…he saved my life. I…I kinda hoped he felt the same. Stupid, I know. I'm just a kid, and he's not even gay." Sam flushed red, his whole face lighting up in embarrassment. He couldn't help the duck of his head, his hair falling in his eyes.

"Hey." Caleb spoke softly, cocking his head to catch Sam's eyes again. "Don't put yourself down, kiddo."

Sam felt tears building up, burning behind his eyes. Admitting it out loud hurt just as much as keeping it to himself, and weren't these things supposed to get better if you talked about them? He couldn't stand Caleb's compassionate gaze all of a sudden, twisting his head away to stare at the parking lot outside the window. It was practically empty at mid-morning, the sun shining down on dusty blacktop and making everything look parched and crisp. The space the Impala had been in that morning was empty, and it broke Sam's heart a little more.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you all so much for reviewing, now that is sending email alerts again I'll try to get down to replying to them! Just a warning: I am actually writing these chapters as I go; with Full Moon, Fast Cars I was a chapter ahead each time I posted, but right now I'm starting from scratch after each update. I'm also in the middle of a month of essays and crap for real life, so I'm not doing as thorough a job of reading through each chapter as I'd like, so if anyone happens to notice any mistakes or dodgy sentences, please point them out to me! It also means that, although I've been doing my best to get these out on my self-imposed deadlines, I may slip up and not finish a chapter in time to post, so I'm sorry in advance! That said, next update will be on Saturday :)

Chapter 6

The Impala was parked behind John's truck in the darkening street. Dean had used his persuasive charm to talk the pretty redhead behind the reception desk at the hospital into finding out the exact dates and times of children born six months ago, narrowing his father's list down to three. According to John, only one of the babies matched the criteria exactly.

Dean didn't have his dad's conviction on the matter. From what he could tell, any of the three could be the child about to be visited by the demon. But John had seemed certain, and Dean's questions had died stillborn on his tongue.

Sam sat next to him in the passenger seat. The kid had barely glanced in his direction, and any attempts to start a conversation were answered with monotone one-word replies.

_Christ, how do I fix this?_

He wanted to reach over the divide between them, pull Sam close and tell him he was sorry. But the fear of rejection kept Dean motionless and silent.

The street was quiet. The houses were mostly in darkness around them, only a few windows lit up to break the black blanket.

Dean had returned to the motel room to discover Sam and Caleb chatting together on his father's bed. He'd been worried that Sam might feel uncomfortable being left on his own with a stranger, but they seemed to be getting on well. Except the conversation ended as soon as he stepped into the room. Sam had turned to him, his face flushed red and embarrassed and Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of _something _in his gut.

"So…" He started, shifting in his seat. According to John, the demon wouldn't show up until dark had completely fallen, which wouldn't happen for another half an hour. "You were getting on well with Caleb earlier." Dean had meant it as an observation, but the words came out sharper than he intended. Luckily Sam didn't seem to notice, continuing in his staring contest with his reflection in the window.

"Yeah."

"That's good." And Dean was at a loss. He _knew _he should bring up this morning, but gathering the nerve seemed to take more effort than he had at the moment.

Spending time alone with his dad that day had been like slipping back in time. Dean found himself responding to orders with a 'yessir' and thinking mutinous thoughts that he didn't dare voice. He found himself missing Sam's presence with an almost physical ache. After six months living in the same space, he'd become acclimatised to having the kid at his side, and without him he felt like he'd lost an arm.

"Dean?" Sam's voice broke the silence between them and Dean turned eagerly.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I think your dad wants you." Dean blinked, looking in the direction Sam was pointing. John was half-leaning out of the truck in front, beckoning to him.

"Oh." He looked at Sam again, who had gone back to staring out of the window blankly. "I…guess I'll go find out what he wants, then. I'll be right back."

Dean stepped out of the car and Sam let out a breath. God, it was so _hard_ being around the older man now. Just yesterday he couldn't have imagined ever feeling uncomfortable with Dean. Yesterday he'd still been thinking of the two of them in terms of years, in terms of _until death do you part_ in the half-acknowledged back of his mind.

Caleb had helped. The other man had spent most of the afternoon telling him stories of the girls he'd been rejected by. He hadn't given up until he'd gotten a laugh out of Sam, and Sam felt stupidly grateful to him.

"Hey Sammy." Dean climbed back into the driver's seat of the Impala. "Dad says we should watch out. It should be showing up any minute now."

"Okay." Sam said, glancing at the other man. Dean was watching him, a frown marring his features. Great, now he had the other man worrying about him even more. No doubt Dean was sick of having to baby him all the time, especially when they were in the middle of a case. He turned to face the house they were watching.

The only light shining in the big semi-detached house was on the second floor. Sam assumed it wasn't the room the kid was in.

He hadn't really been concentrating on the discussion they'd had earlier, tuning in to catch the part where the demon was immune to iron rounds, rock salt, blessed silver and holy water. Privately he thought going after it was kind of a bad idea, especially as John and Caleb had attacked it before. If it was expecting them, then it could lay a trap.

But it wasn't his hunt. It was John's, and by extension, Dean's. And anything that was Dean's problem automatically became Sam's. That wouldn't change, even after the hunt, after Sam left.

The streetlights flickered. Sam blinked, sitting up straight in his seat. Beside him, Dean shifted as well.

"Did you see that?" Dean turned toward him. "Was that…"

"Yeah. Electrical shorts. That's a sign, right?"

"Yeah." Dean opened the car door, looking for his father. John's door opened and he emerged, starting toward Dean. "C'mon, I think this is it."

Dean followed his father up the tiny paved path toward the house. John didn't pause to knock at the door, lowering his shoulder and charging it like a bull. It flew open under his weight with a crash, splinters flying from the lock and squealing on its hinges. John barrelled inside.

Dean didn't have time to think, trailing blindly after his father and almost tripping on the doormat as he stepped inside the house. He could hear Sam close on his heels and he turned to the dark hallway, seeing John's shape at the top of the stairs before he disappeared around the corner, toward the spilling light of one of the bedrooms.

The stairs squeaked under Dean's booted feet and he could hear screaming. He stumbled on the top stair, falling into the wall and knocking a picture to the floor. The smiling faces of a family caught his eye; a blonde woman holding a newborn baby, a tall young man with an arm around her. They were sitting on a red cloth in a garden, the baby wrapped in a white blanket and peeking curiously at the camera. Dean blinked and ran toward the open doorway at the end of the hallway, leaving the happy picture behind.

He entered the unlit room, seeing his father standing to one side. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, noticing first the filmy white curtains blowing in the breeze like they were ethereal beings. Then the black figure moved into his vision and it was like running straight into a brick wall.

The demon he'd spent his life hunting, had heard so much about without ever actually seeing it with his own eyes. It stood five feet in front of him in a human skin, the only sign that it was something _other_ being the sickly yellow of its eyes. A woman stood to his left, held back by his father's big hand gripping her upper arm.

Sam stepped into the room after him, and Dean absently noted the sharp intake of breath. Caleb followed, raising a shotgun like he'd been born carrying it, like it was an extension of his arm.

The woman screamed again and he heard another set of feet on the staircase, heading in their direction.

The room seemed so cramped and small, so many people confined in the tiny space and Dean wondered, not for the first time, whether his father had thought this through properly. More people meant more firepower, sure, but it also meant a greater chance of someone getting trapped when it came to getting out again. And if John was right and the demon followed pattern, the house would soon be ablaze. He shifted closer to Sam, making sure he was within grabbing distance and aware of the open doorway behind him.

The demon seemed amused to see them, like it was playing a game of chess and they were the opposing pieces to be carelessly removed at its whim.

"John. So nice to see you again." The demon spoke using some poor man's voice, some stranger's lips. John bared his teeth and Dean almost expected his father to growl like a frustrated dog.

"Get the hell away from the baby."

The demon pretended to consider the request before shaking its head slowly. "No. No, I don't think I will this time. You know that" it nodded at Caleb's shotgun "doesn't work on me. I've humoured you before, but now I think it's time to remind you which of us has all the power in this relationship." It grinned, showing white teeth that shone in the black of its face.

And then Sam stepped forward, out of Dean's reach.

Dean's breath caught in his throat, and it was as if everyone in the room took a collective gasp. The demon saw Sam and froze for a second, its expression turning cold and hard.

"You. I _know _you, Sam Miller."

* * *

Sam didn't have a clue what he was doing. But this was the exact scene from his vision, right down to the stuffed animals on the shelves and the lullaby playing softly in the background like a haunting accompaniment in a bad horror movie. He'd _seen _it, and he knew that if he didn't do something, that poor innocent woman would end up dying.

The demon spoke, and it was as if all the blood in his veins had turned to liquid lead, poisoning him from the inside out.

The baby chose that minute to break into the claustrophobic air with a wailing cry. It reinvigorated the mother, who started to scream wordlessly with her child and tug uselessly in John's strong grip.

Apparently the cries broke Caleb out of his stupor as well, and the shaven-headed man let loose with two booming shots, taking care to aim above the crib. The demon shuddered, crackling in and out of Sam's vision as a spirit would. Sam wondered how it was able to do that whilst inhabiting a human body, and then passed the thought off to be investigated later.

The shots gave Sam an opening and he darted forward, his booted footfalls muffled on the thick carpet. He ducked around the form of the demon, lunging for the baby.

The demon reached out a flickering arm to him and Dean saved his ass again with covering fire. Sam chanced a look toward the door and saw him, revolvers of silver in both hands, shooting like John Wayne and gritting his teeth in a pale and determined expression. Caleb was reloading the shotgun and John was steering the hysterical woman to the door whilst drawing his own weapon. A tall figure stood outside, taking the woman from John's hand and Sam assumed it must be the husband and father of the baby he was currently trying to save.

Whilst the covering fire was keeping the demon from stopping Sam, it was also hindering Sam's ability to move fast, and the whole operation was taking so much longer than he was comfortable with.

He reached the foot of the crib, the squealing baby writhing and waving limbs in front of him. It occurred to him as he was looking down on the child; he'd never actually held a baby before. It would be just his luck to save the kid from the demon, only to accidentally drop it on the way out. And then the demon spun toward him and he told himself to stop being so stupid and _get on with it_.

Snatching the pink baby up, he held it close to his chest, feeling the tiny wriggling life warm in his arms. He had a moment of awe - this was a _baby_, and it was entrusted to _him _– before he turned and ran back toward the doorway.

Dean had pocketed one of the guns and was currently firing one-handed, the other extended to Sam. He reached Dean just as Caleb snapped the shotgun up, waving a hand at them.

"Go! I've got it, get out of here!"

Dean didn't wait around, pulling Sam from the room bodily, almost too fast for his feet to keep up. He let Dean guide him through the pitch black hallway, focusing on the baby in his arms. It had stopped crying, but a glance downward showed its little face scrunched in fear. Sam held it tighter. No child should know terror like that.

Dean stumbled out of the front door, Sam in front of him. He had both hands on Sam's upper arms, guiding him through the carefully tended shrubbery surrounding the front lawn and onto the street, squashing plants beneath his feet. They halted in the middle of the road, a few feet from where his father was standing, one hand on the shoulder of the dark-haired man whose arms encircled his wife. They were all staring at the house, mouths open like gawkers at a roadside accident.

Forgetting for a second where they were and who they were with, Dean pulled Sam into his arms, mindful of the baby against the kid's chest. He hugged them both close, resisted the urge to press a kiss to Sam's forehead.

Caleb came spilling out of the house, running full tilt through the path Dean and Sam had carved in the plantbeds a second earlier. The shotgun was hanging limply by his side.

He skidded to a stop when he reached John's side, turning to watch the still house. Seconds passed, and Dean thought maybe the demon had left, maybe it wouldn't…

And then there was a dull roar, and red flames licked at the curtains in the upstairs bedroom.

As if the sight and sound of the fire pushed her into motion, the woman let out a gulping sob, spinning on her heel. She caught sight of her baby, held snug between Sam and Dean, propelling herself headfirst toward them. Dean let go of Sam, allowing the kid to move forward and meet her.

Dean watched as Sam oh-so-carefully handed the child over, his hand big and gentle enough to cup the head, fragile as butterfly wings. The mother took her baby, looking at Sam with the same reverence a priest would hold for the image of Christ. Dean took a step forward, hearing the words she was breathing in a mantra under her breath; "_thankyouthankyouthankyou_"

All Sam did was smile, sweet and genuine. Dean felt his heart melt.

* * *

They stumbled away from the burning house like drunks, still riding high on adrenaline. Dean wanted to swing an arm around Sam, hold him steady and tell him it was all okay. The sirens of fire engines and ambulances rang out in the night behind them.

The family they'd left behind asked questions, looked at them with white faces and shocked uncomprehending expressions. John had told them it was alright, to wait until the emergency services got there and concentrate on taking care of themselves and their baby. The tall father had demanded an explanation. John just gave him a sad look and turned away.

Caleb was darting inquisitive looks at Sam, and Dean had some pretty big questions to ask the kid as well. The only person who didn't seem surprised at the demon's revelation was John.

Sam was trailing along, dragging his feet on the sidewalk with a shell-shocked expression. Dean left the inquisition for later.

The night air was warm and mild, the scent of roses from the houses they passed thick in his nose. Dean noted absently that there was a full moon. It shone high over the rooftops like a watching god, cold and heartless.

The Impala and John's truck had been left in the street, no one in a state to drive right now. John said they'd go back in the morning, after the drama that would be unfolding in the street had calmed. For once Dean wasn't too concerned about his car, thinking in terms of _stiff drink_.

Sam caught his foot on the curb, tripping and almost landing facedown in the street. Dean caught his arm before he could fall, taking in the unheeding confusion on the kid's face.

"Th-thanks." He stuttered. Dean tried to smile, suspected it came out wrong.

"That's okay. It's okay." He kept his hand on Sam's arm a beat too long, letting Sam shrug it off and keep walking.

John and Caleb were up ahead, Caleb practically dancing on his toes. Dean remembered the two men coming home from hunts when he was too young to accompany them. Caleb would be hollering and spinning in circles like a crazy person, drunk on the survival of certain death. He could tell the other man was holding himself in right now, maybe because of the demon's cryptic words to Sam. John was stoic as usual, marching toward his destination with dogged determination, focused on his goal.

Right now Dean's goal was to get as drunk as possible.

They walked down night-veiled streets, lit by streetlights and silent. The houses in each were dark, as if in mourning for the destruction a few roads over.

John led them into the town with unerring footsteps, never faltering or going wrong. They came to a bar, neon sign in the window proclaiming it was serving until three. Dean slouched in on himself in relief.

It had been _the _demon, the demon that took his mother and his rightful life from him. He'd seen it with his own eyes, seen it flinch. He thought perhaps now he understood his father a little better.

"C'mon. Let's get a round in." John said, stopping and turning to survey them at the doorway, a general surveying his troops.

Caleb grinned, his body thrumming with repressed electricity. He slapped a hand on John's shoulder. "Sure. I'm buying. Beers, whiskey chasers." He disappeared into the bar.

Sam followed him in. Dean was about to step past his father when John held a hand out.

"Dean. I'm proud of you, son. Thank you." Dean looked up at his father, feeling a riot of emotions that weren't all due to the hunt. He blushed, head tilting down to stare at his feet.

"Yeah. Thanks, dad."

John reached a hand out, guiding Dean inside by the shoulder. Sam was waiting for them amongst the smoky tables, a tiny frown painting his forehead.

"Why don't you help Caleb with the drinks. Sam and I'll find us a table in the back. Don't want the kid getting chucked out." John winked at Dean and Dean found himself smiling back, the first proper smile he'd found for his father since their awkward reunion.

Sam watched Dean step up to the bar, Caleb turning with a big grin and slapping him on the back. Dean grinned at the other man, saying something Sam couldn't quite catch. Before he could follow, John took him gently by the arm, leading him away.

He turned to the big man, seeing a soft expression creasing the skin around John's eyes.

"Sam. You did real good in there."

A warm feeling swirling in his stomach, like melting ice cream. Sam flushed, ducking his head to avoid the praise.

"Thanks." It slipped out, barely a whisper, but John caught it and smiled down at him.

"You're a good hunter. As good as I've heard, and I've heard some impressive things about you." Sam's head came up fast, his heart suddenly pounding like he had to replay the evening all over. But John's eyes held no mocking cruelty. Instead they were tinged with a trace of sadness. "C'mon, let's get a table. I think there're some things you'd like to know."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review :) I love hearing what you guys think! The next chapter will be up next Saturday, which I know is later than I usually post, but unfortunately I have a hugeass essay to write in the week as well :(

Chapter 7

The bar was ridiculously crowded for past ten on a weeknight. Caleb was still waiting to be served, and Dean had taken to surreptitiously glancing over to the corner where Sam and his father were sitting. Sam was still looking pale and drawn, and John was leaning toward him. Whatever they were talking about looked pretty intense.

"C'mon, man, gimme a hand with these." Caleb broke into his thoughts, shoving two bottles toward him. The bartender was pouring whiskey into four glasses. Dean could see finger smears on the sides and felt momentarily repulsed, and then the events of the night replayed in his mind. Alcohol was of the good, and right now Dean would drink it out of the bellybutton of the fat trucker sitting on his left if he had to. The fat trucker who was currently wobbling on his bar stool and singing off-key to the rendition of Abba's Gimme Gimme Gimme playing on the sound system. Who _chose _these songs?

A curvy woman with artfully teased blonde hair 'accidentally' bumped into him, stroking the length of his arm in apology. She flashed him a smile, her tongue poking out from between her teeth in a way that Dean assumed was supposed to be alluring. Caleb brusquely shoved a beer bottle into his hand.

"Let's go. We ain't here for pickups, honey." Dean wasn't sure if the comment was directed at him or at the blonde, but she backed off with an unbecoming scowl.

"Hey, that was kinda rude." Dean said, taking the drinks in front of him. Caleb faced him with a frown.

"Yeah, well. Girl like that, who knows where she's been."

"Could say the same about these glasses, dude." Dean tried to joke, but Caleb just nodded toward Sam and his father. Dean trailed after him, wondering what the hell he'd done to piss the other man off.

John and Sam stopped talking as soon as they reached the table, although Sam still looked shocked. Dean dropped into a chair next to the kid, nudging Sam's knee with his own. Sam's head flew up at that, looking at him with wide eyes.

Dean smiled, pushing a bottle toward Sam. The kid looked at it like he didn't know what to do with it. It was only then that Dean remembered, and he could have smacked himself for not thinking.

"You don't have to drink it." He leaned in so that John and Caleb wouldn't hear. Sam didn't reply, looking at him for a long moment before picking up the bottle and taking a long drink, his eyes on Dean the whole time. Mentally shrugging, Dean picked up his own bottle, draining half in one gulp and reaching for the glass of whiskey.

The four of them sat in silence, each lost in their beer and their thoughts. Dean shifted in his seat, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

He wanted to ask, so badly, what the demon had been talking about. How it _knew _Sam. But no one was saying anything, and so he kept quiet.

The bar was filled with people, fat old men who were obviously regulars and pretty girls who were passing through on their way to the next place. The air was filled with cigarette smoke and the scent of spilled alcohol and it took Dean back to the many dingy bars he'd spent his days in before Sam. There was a pool table in the back of the room, a group of men in dirty jeans and unwashed shirts gathered round, money in hand.

The music playing on the crackling sound system was now all seventies disco and eighties pop, an apparently regular occurrence judging by the half-drunk people attempting to dance in between the tables. Dean privately thought life would be a whole lot better if the whole disco movement never happened.

John was taking long draws from his bottle. Dean remembered from the old days how his father would start off a night as he meant to go on, drinking steadily and pacing himself for the long haul. It was how everything went down in John Winchester's world. Caleb had already finished his beer, the empty bottle discarded on the tabletop as he started on the glass of whiskey.

The blonde from the bar passed their table, flaunting her cleavage and sending an obvious wink Dean's way. John saw, looking over at Dean with a resigned smile. Dean wasn't sure what it meant at first, digging in the back of his mind to place the look he'd forgotten years back.

And then it made sense. Of course John would be expecting him to go for it. A blatant come-on like that, and Dean Winchester in the room. John had seen, before, the many girls that Dean had used to warm his bed for a night. He hadn't been fussy, as long as they were pretty and slutty. And this girl ticked all of the old requirements. John was expecting his son to get up and follow the girl, giving the table a wide smile that said he was going to get some, abandoning everyone else to their night.

Dean quickly looked down, his face reddening with embarrassment.

John broke the silence at the table. "I need another drink. C'mon son, give your old man a hand."

He looked up. John was standing, waiting for him to follow. With a sigh Dean stood, trying to catch Sam's eye as he did. But the kid was intent on the tabletop, peeling the label off his half-empty beer bottle with one hand.

John slowed to walk beside Dean as they approached the bar.

"Dean, son, if you want to…" John broke off, not meeting his eyes.

Dean looked at John inquisitively.

"If you want to, you know. Take someone home with you. Don't worry about it. Caleb and I can take Sam back with us. You don't have to worry about him." Dean blinked. What the hell? Why would Sam be going anywhere without him?

And then it hit him. His dad was trying to be nice, trying to help Dean out. Trying to _hook him up_. Dean flushed again.

How the hell was he supposed to explain to his father that he didn't want to sleep with some random girl? That he didn't do that anymore? It would involve talking, and Dean could just about manage to have a serious conversation with Sam. To have this kind of talk with his father, who was no better than he was at discussing his feelings, would be like slicing open his own stomach with a rusty blade. Slowly. He remembered the extreme awkwardness of John trying to explain sex to a twelve-year old Dean. It had involved a lot of stuttering and red faces on both their parts. They'd avoided each others' eyes for a week afterward.

Dean managed to get out a non-committal grunt, turning to the bar and focusing his attention on getting the bartender over. He needed more alcohol, like yesterday.

A hand pressed against the small of his back and Dean jumped, turning around fast. He found himself face-to-face with the blonde girl, who was smiling like she wanted to eat him. It was vaguely terrifying, and Dean tried to remember how he'd ever found this _appealing _in a woman.

He looked around for his father, saw John picking up four bottles. Handing him one with a wink and abandoning his only son to this woman, who could be the devil incarnate for all John knew. Dean found a shaky grin, leaning back against the bar and trying to make it look casual. Not like he was thinking of vaulting a table and running to hide behind Sam.

* * *

Sam was watching Dean chat up some blonde whore of a woman. It was like watching a train wreck; he knew he didn't want to see it, but he couldn't take his eyes off it.

Caleb noticed, following his gaze to the bar. He frowned a little and turned back to Sam. "Hey. Don't watch."

Sam really wished he could follow Caleb's advice. But now the woman was stroking Dean's arm, _stroking _him in public like Sam had wanted to do for so long. Why the hell should this slut get _everything _Sam had ever wanted, taking it in a heartbeat, while he was left to sit and watch? It felt like Dean had cheerfully slit his throat and left him to die, choking on his own blood.

John returned to the table, placing bottles in front of Sam and Caleb. Sam snatched his up, swallowing half of it in long gulps. Maybe he was beginning to see the attraction of drinking himself senseless. He snorted under his breath. _Six months without my father_, he thought,_ and I find out Jim Miller had it right all along_.

Dean was laughing at something the woman said, leaning back against the bar like everything was right with the world. Sam closed his eyes. He knew Dean didn't want him, but he didn't need to have it rubbed in his face.

The woman was some kind of succubus in disguise, Dean decided after the third 'subtle' hint she had given, this time telling him her room was "just outside" and she would be all alone tonight. Lucky he'd decided to become gay, he thought distantly. It was vaguely interesting watching the woman work when he wasn't the least bit affected by her. She was really pulling out all the stops, flipping her hair like she had a nervous twitch and pouting big painted lips at him. He took a long drag of his beer, feeling the effects of rapid alcohol consumption. His head felt like it was floating on clouds and the pounding backbeat to the music was making him dizzy.

He wanted to just turn her down nicely and go back to the table. He could see Sam from his position cowering against the bar. The kid looked lost and sad, and Dean would do anything to make him smile again. But John was watching him. He couldn't leave, not unless he wanted his dad to ask why, and Dean wasn't sure he could lie convincingly right now. Not with the heady mix of alcohol and adrenaline, the demon's influence still running through his system.

John stood up, slowly making his way through the crowd toward the men's room at the back of the bar. Dean was about to push the girl away and go back to the table, to _Sam_, when he saw it.

Caleb's hand reaching out to Sam, closing around the slender wrist and squeezing. Dean frowned, the chatter of the girl in front of him fading into the background. Caleb was leaning in, whispering something that made Sam smile softly. Sam wasn't pulling his hand away. Dean wanted to march over there and rip Caleb off _his _kid, smash his head into the table and drag Sam back to the motel room.

"You don't have to stick around and watch." Caleb said with a sympathetic look. "We'll be taking off when John gets back, why don't you come back with us?"

Sam smiled bitterly and looked at the scarred tabletop. The varnish had peeled away in places, leaving a patchwork of shiny and dull, light and dark.

"I think I should stay. I need to talk to Dean anyway."

Caleb sighed heavily, patting his hand again. "Okay, kiddo. If that's what you want. Just don't torture yourself, 'kay?"

Sam nodded once, glancing over at Dean. It was all well and good saying it, but it was like Dean was a magnet, pulling his gaze back again and again. "I won't."

"Yeah, sure. Look kid, I'm in room eleven. If you need a place to sleep tonight, away from Dean, just knock." He smiled gratefully at Caleb as the other man relinquished his hold on Sam's hand.

John returned and Sam hid the hand Caleb had been touching under the table, as if John would see it and sense the reason behind the touch.

"We should get going." John said with a glance in Dean's direction. "D'you want to come back with us, Sam?"

"No, that's okay. I'll stick around, wait for Dean." John looked awkward, as if he wanted to say something more. The moment passed and he nodded in Sam's direction, waiting for Caleb to stand.

* * *

Dean waited for his father and Caleb to walk out of the bar before unceremoniously ditching the girl in the middle of her sentence. He strode over to the table where Sam was still sat, idly picking at his beer bottle and looking downright miserable.

"Sam?" The kid looked up at his voice, surprise in his eyes.

"Dean. I thought you were busy." Sam's lips twisted in a sneer as he nodded his head curtly at the bar. "Shouldn't you get back to her?"

"This has nothing to do with her. What the hell were you doing with Caleb just now?" Sam frowned in confusion and Dean's hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "The guy was _holding _your _hand_, Sam!"

"What?" Sam looked honestly bewildered and for a second Dean wondered if maybe it had all been a trick of his mind. But he'd _seen _it, he'd seen that bastard touch _his _Sam.

"Was he trying it on with you? Tell me, Sam. Did he do anything to you? I swear, if he did anything to you…" Dean turned to go after Caleb, intent on teaching him a lesson. Sam wasn't to be touched, by _anyone_. The kid had been abused enough for one lifetime.

"Dean, wait!" Sam was on his feet and in front of Dean as he pushed his way toward the exit. "Wait, he wasn't doing anything! He was just saying I could stay with him, if…"

"If what?" Dean stopped, looking at Sam's face. The kid was staring at the ground, his cheeks flushed.

"If you were gonna take that girl back with you." Sam said softly without meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean's mouth opened soundlessly on words that wouldn't come. Sam thought he would actually do that? That he would throw away the last six months for a random fuck with some girl whose name he couldn't remember, if she even told it to him in the first place?

The sounds of the bar hit him right then, as if someone had turned the volume up to full. Someone bumped into him from behind, knocking him forward into Sam. The kid still wasn't looking at him.

Dean caught Sam's hand in a bruising grip, marching to the door. He could feel Sam stumbling along after, towed in his wake by his unrelenting grasp.

As soon as they were outside, Dean turned, stepping right into Sam's space. The kid looked at him with a frown, like he hadn't quite caught up with everything yet.

"Dean, what…" Dean didn't wait for him to finish. One hand reached up, hooking around Sam's neck and pulling him down into a hard kiss. The other arm wound itself around Sam's slim waist, pressing him backward until the kid was trapped between Dean's body and the brick wall of the bar. The thumping bass line of the music vibrated through the wall, pinning them together until there wasn't a breath between their two bodies.

He could practically taste Sam's confusion, the _what the hell_ that ran through his mind as his hands came up to try and push Dean away. And then every muscle in his body seemed to relax until he was a limp ragdoll in Dean's arms. His fingers were twisted weakly in the shirt at Dean's sides, twitching reflexively as he let Dean lick into his mouth.

The kid tasted of beer, and something sweet and sticky that was all Sam. Dean held him tighter, the hand on his neck sliding up to card through his hair. He could feel when Sam let himself go; the surge forward to press into Dean, and then they were kissing hot and heavy, right in the street where anyone could see.

Sam broke away, twisting his head to one side as he tried to pant out words. "I thought…I thought…"

Dean cut him off. "I want this. Sam, I want _this_."

Sam blinked at him with fox-sharp eyes, trying to see into him, to read him. Dean held his gaze, and finally Sam seemed to find something that satisfied him. The corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny smile and he leaned back into Dean, finding his mouth again.

* * *

Sam stumbled up the steps, falling against their motel room door. Dean was pressed into his back, his mouth kissing and biting at the nape of his neck, making him shiver, and Sam wanted to fall to his knees in the middle of the scummy motel and thank whatever higher power there may be for letting him _have _this.

Dean spun him around, pressing into him with his entire body and fusing their mouths together again.

Sam let his hands slip carefully under Dean's shirt, fingers exploring the hot skin of his back. Dean was fumbling in his front pocket for the motel keys, his mouth still attached to Sam's.

Dean managed to locate the key, groaning as he pulled away from Sam long enough to insert it into the lock. He pressed back into Sam as he unlocked the door, both of them tumbling backward into the room. He tripped and almost fell but Dean's arms kept them upright, and the older man caught his mouth again.

Dean tasted of vanilla, smelt like burning embers. Sam wrapped arms around his neck and pulled him forward, not wanting to let a second of contact go to waste. Apparently Dean was in as much of a hurry, holding onto Sam like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver and nuzzling at his mouth like it was oxygen and he hadn't taken a breath in days.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the room in darkness. Sam felt Dean move away and couldn't help the desperate whimper escaping his mouth. Suddenly they were bathed in light, and Sam caught a glimpse of Dean by the light switch with an equally desperate expression on his face before he stepped back into Sam's embrace.

Sam wasn't sure how long they stood there in the centre of the musty little room, trading kisses and soft touches. It felt like everything was in slow motion, like they were underwater. Dean felt warm against him.

Dean's hand came up, fingertips trailing down the side of Sam's face, tracing cheekbone and jawline. Sam leaned into it, opening his eyes to find the older man watching him with wide eyed awe.

Sam slid a hand up, following the curve of Dean's spine under his shirt. He wanted to see, wanted to touch the acres of hot skin. Except a pained look creased Dean's face, quickly hidden behind a blank mask, but there long enough for Sam to catch it.

Sam stepped away, dropping his arms.

"Sammy, what…" Dean tried to follow, hands reaching for him, but Sam pushed him back.

"Dean, if you don't want this, then don't pretend."

Dean's mouth dropped, a frown painting his face in shades. Sam bit his lip and looked to the side, staring at a peeling patch of wallpaper partially hidden beneath a picture frame. The picture showed a nice calming landscape, painted in pastel shades and reproduced to hang in places just like this. He'd probably seen it before, hiding imperfections in motel rooms all over the country.

"Sam, what? How can you think I don't want this? I said I do, just now."

"Yeah you did. But you don't have to lie. I'm not gonna break, despite what you might think."

Dean took a step closer and Sam moved back, feeling the back of his legs hit the bed.

"I don't think that. And I'm _not _lying, Sam."

"Then how come every time we do this, you get an expression on your face like I'm holding a gun to your head? I can _see_ you, Dean, I know that you don't want it." His lip felt ragged between his teeth and he could taste the faint sour-milk flavour of blood. It felt appropriate that one of them should be bleeding.

"Sam." Dean said his name, his mouth working on words that had no sound. Sam sighed and let himself drop on the bed.

"It's okay, Dean. It's fine."

"No! No it's not fine, Sam! You think I'm, what? Doing you a favour? I want this just as much as you, Sammy." Dean came and sat beside him, his voice dropping. He left five inches of space between their bodies and Sam would have felt grateful, except Dean gave out warmth like a furnace. He could feel the line of heat branding him, painting all down his side.

Sam tried to scrunch in on himself, pulling his limbs close to his body and ducking his head so his chin was almost resting on his chest. He didn't see Dean's hand until it was pressed into his shoulder.

"Don't." Dean spoke so softly he almost missed the word. "Don't do that. Please. I hate it when you do that, Sam."

Sam peeked up at the other man from beneath his hair. He was surprised to see Dean looking almost as drained and shaken as him.

"Sammy. It's…it's not that I don't want this." Dean was staring fixedly at the picture on the wall, determined not to meet Sam's eyes. "I swear, I do. It's just…your dad."

"What?" Sam forgot about his attempt to be invisible, turning so that his whole body was facing Dean.

"Look, your dad, he…made you do stuff that you didn't want. And you did it, to make him happy, right?"

Sam blinked. "You think I'm doing this to make you happy?"

"I think you…" Dean huffed, scratching a hand through his short hair and choking out a tiny laugh. "God, I'm bad at this. Look, I just think we don't need to rush this. You need to…get better, or something, and I don't wanna be something that you're gonna regret later."

Sam cocked his head to one side, looking at Dean with a frown. The other man was still rigidly fixated on the far wall and Sam took the opportunity to study his profile. His mind was chewing over everything Dean said, putting it into the words Dean couldn't say.

A flicker of light shone through the thin curtains, a car's headlights as it passed. It lit up a streak across the wall, making shadows chase each other through the room. Dean's eyes flicked sideways, looking at him for a second before looking back at the wall. He looked nervous, as if he was waiting for Sam to start yelling.

"Okay." Sam's quiet reply startled both of them.

"Okay?" Dean's head spun to stare at him, an incredulous look on his face.

"You're right." Sam ducked his head. "I just…"

Dean nodded, his eyes soft. "Yeah."

"Yeah." Sam echoed inanely, blinking a few times. His head was still spinning, repeating the nights' events, sticking occasionally on Dean saying _I want this_. Suddenly he felt exhausted, as if every drop of energy had been wrung out of him. He wanted to curl up in Dean and just _sleep_.

Sam took a deep breath and pushed aside his exhaustion. If they were going to be honest with each other, they were going to be honest all the way. The murmured conversation he'd had with John in the bar drifted back to him. "There's something else we need to talk about. Something you need to know. About me."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thanks for all your lovely reviews, I'm so glad you guys are liking this! The next update should be on Thursday/Friday as unfortunately I still have work to be doing :( But here's the next chapter, as promised :) Enjoy!

Chapter 8

"Your dad…he told me some things, while you and Caleb were at the bar." Sam didn't meet Dean's eyes, chewing on a hangnail and focusing on a rubbed-bare patch on the carpeted floor.

He could feel Dean's presence warm beside him, unmoving. Waiting for him to continue.

"He said…he said that I was one of them." He looked up to gauge Dean's reaction. The older man frowned, his eyes uncomprehending. "One of the children. That the demon went after." Sam elaborated.

Sam watched as Dean's mind worked over the information. He could tell the exact moment it all made sense, Dean's mouth pursing and opening wordlessly. Sam blinked, looking away.

It had taken him a second to add it all up, sitting there in that dirty bar, surrounded by laughing drunks who cared nothing for his pain. His life. Jim Miller had never explained to him the reasons behind their lifestyle, and Sam had never asked. Had wondered, back when he was still young and confused, seeing other kids his age playing baseball and laughing in the sunlight while he sat in the passenger seat of an old Cadillac learning exorcism rites in latin, but never asked. The only thing he knew was that his mother was dead and it was his fault. To a seven year-old boy that was enough to live with.

But John's faltering explanation given in a quiet and blameless voice told him everything that he'd never wanted to know. His mother had burned, just like Dean's mother. She had burned above his crib and baptised him with her blood and tears.

"When I was a baby, my mom died pinned to the ceiling of my nursery by the demon." His name on the list John showed him had been proof enough. _Sam Miller_. Stated in bold black print, beneath two other names and ahead of one more. His mother's death had reduced him to a name on a list.

The room seemed too hot. His clothes seared his skin, rough fabric like bindings that scratched away at his body and left him sore all over.

Dean's hand on the back of his neck made him flinch like he'd been stung, but when he risked a peek from the corner of his eye, all he saw in Dean's white face was sadness.

"Sammy…"

"I didn't know." He blurted out. "I didn't know that she died like that, not until your dad told me. I would've told you if I knew." It seemed important to clarify it to Dean. Dean's thumb on the back of his neck began stroking, soft little movements that cooled some of the blistering heat in his skin.

"I know." Dean said softly, almost too quiet to be heard.

Sam closed his eyes. In his mind, he replayed his vision, only instead of the nameless woman they'd saved tonight, he saw the two-dimensional picture of his own mother. He'd only seen her photo a few times in his life, a picture his father carried with him and sometimes left out on his nightstand when he was feeling sentimental. Twelve year-old Sam had snuck into his room one night, when Jim was passed out on the sofa and snoring. He'd taken the picture in reverent hands and forced himself to stay awake until dawn, staring at her likeness until it was branded into his brain. It had helped him live through his father's punishments, knowing that there was a _reason_, a meaning behind them. That the pretty woman smiling behind glass needed him to be strong and keep going.

"I'm sorry." Dean's voice surprised him and he forgot himself, turning to face the other man.

"What for?"

Dean blinked, looking startled. "I'm sorry it happened. I'm sorry you had to grow up like this because of that sonovabitch. I'm sorry your dad…did what he did, all because of the fucking demon."

"Oh." Sam looked down at his hands, fisted together in his lap. The heat of Dean's quiet words, the suppressed anger in them, shocked Sam. It hadn't occurred to him to feel sorry that it happened. To him it was another thing to be taken with silent resignation, another burden that he had to live with. Sorry didn't come into it.

Dean stood up suddenly, making Sam start.

"God, I can't believe him!" Sam blinked in confusion, watching Dean as the other man began to pace the room, one hand screwing in his hair like he was going to rip it out. "I can't believe he told you like that! In a goddamned _bar_!" Dean spun on his heel, taking an abortive step toward the door before apparently deciding that now wasn't the time to go and yell at his father.

"Dean. It's not your dad's fault. I needed to know. After tonight, what the demon said, I _needed _to know."

Dean breathed out sharply, the frustrated anger deflating with the exhale. He scrubbed at his face, turning back to Sam. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm just…Christ, it's not fair! It's not fair that this should happen to you."

Sam didn't know what to say, instead focusing on the picture on the wall again. The pastel shades really _were _soothing. Maybe if he looked at it hard enough, he could disappear in between the lines of pink sky and baby blue sea.

He was brought out of his muddled thoughts when Dean dropped to his knees in front of him.

"Sammy, I…" Dean didn't seem to know where he was going with the sentence. Instead the other man closed his eyes, his head bowing as if he was waiting to receive absolution. His hand reached out, touching Sam's knee gently. "I'm sorry. For everything."

He wasn't sure exactly what Dean was apologising for, but Sam nodded anyway.

* * *

Sam was lying still in the bed beside him, and Dean didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to say, how could he make this alright? He couldn't believe his father. John just told Sam, just like that, speaking words that would change Sam's _life_, and he did it in some crappy no-name bar with Queen music playing overhead. Dean rubbed a hand through his hair.

After telling him what he knew, Sam had sat there silently, soulful look in his eyes like _Dean_ was the one that needed comforting. It left an ache in his chest and a bad taste in his mouth.

He rolled over, looking at Sam's tee shirt covered back. The kid had acquiesced quietly when Dean suggested getting some sleep. Dean had helped him out of his clothes, stripping them from his pliant and unmoving body with gentle hands, as if his care could make everything better, make it all okay again.

Dean let out an audible breath. He couldn't make up for the pain Jim Miller had inflicted, or his own father's insensitivity. And his own misunderstanding had hurt Sam badly, he knew, and he had been all ready to ream himself out for it after Sam had fallen asleep. But the kid was locked in his own suffering right now, whether he chose to acknowledge it or not, and the least Dean could do was push aside the self-flagellation and be there for him. So he reached out a hand, pulling Sam back. He positioned the kid against his chest and felt Sam's body deflate a little, relaxing into him.

Wrapping arms around Sam's slim frame, Dean let his eyes drift closed, his nose buried in the soft hair at the back of Sam's neck.

* * *

"_These kids, all of them were special. All of them could…do things. Things that people who haven't seen what we've seen would say are impossible."_

"_What? What do you mean?"_

"_One kid could electrocute with a touch. One could manipulate people into doing anything they asked. The kids, the ones that fit the pattern. They're all psychics."_

Sam gasped awake, the heady scent of spilled beer disappearing with his dream. His dream that wasn't a dream. John had said those words to him, watching him cautiously out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a reaction. Sam hadn't given him one beyond the expected wide-eyed astonishment. Jim Miller's training had been good for something.

Sam had asked, _were? _John had looked away at that point, averting his eyes as he spoke gruffly. Past tense, because none of the kids on the list were still living. Their abilities had made them crazy, driven them mad. John had been digging into this for months, ever since the demon made its first reappearance. He told Sam in what was apparently supposed to be a reassuring tone of voice that the kids had been from bad backgrounds, that it probably wasn't all down to the demon's influence on their lives. And Sam had wanted to laugh, because he pretty much had the monopoly on bad backgrounds.

Dean snorted in his sleep, his face pressed into Sam's neck. The older man's arms were wrapped tight around Sam, his body a warm line against Sam's back. The darkness and the thick covers and Dean's easy breaths against his jaw felt like a cocoon, like he was safe and protected.

It had been strange and alien at first, feeling _safe_. He'd never felt like anyone was looking out for him, looking _after _him, before Dean. Six months later and he still wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. He remembered once waking up in the night after a dream of his father, Jim Miller dying and calling out to him for vengeance and Sam turning his back, and feeling Dean's body heat against his own. He'd felt so damned grateful to be there, and it was only when the cool air brushed his face that he realised he'd been crying.

And now he was quite possibly going to go crazy and kill everyone with the psychic powers no one knew he had. Although how he could kill someone with _visions_, he wasn't too sure. At least he knew he wasn't hallucinating, he told himself bitterly.

He'd wanted to tell Dean earlier, but the other man had looked so desolate and shattered after learning about Sam's mother that he hadn't been able to get the words out. Hadn't been _ready _to get the words out, to have Dean think he was a complete freak.

A spiteful part of him whispered that maybe he just didn't want to tell anyone. Everyone had their secrets, _Dean_ had his secrets, and Sam seemed to be the only one spilling his guts on command. He turned his head slightly, taking in Dean's smooth and worry-free face. The filtered light that slipped past the curtains at the window only afforded a silhouetted view, chalk-white lines outlining the curves of cheekbone and jaw on a black canvass. There was so much Dean hadn't told him.

Because Dean's name hadn't been on that list. Dean hadn't been one of the 'special' children, the chosen insane psychic kids listed in plain black type. Maybe John had just taken it off, crossed it away so he didn't have to be reminded of it. But then, why wouldn't John have told Dean about everything? Why would he have waited so long to get in touch if he knew his son might possess psychic powers, might go crazy at any moment? Dean's mother had been killed by the demon, in the same way as Sam's, in the same way as the other children, and yet Dean _wasn't on the list_.

Dean shifted in his sleep, one hand flexing and tightening on the thin skin of Sam's lower stomach. Sam carefully placed his own hand over Dean's, slipping his fingers in the spaces between the other man's fingers so they were almost linked.

* * *

Sam was gone from the bed when Dean woke up, brought out of sleep by the feeling of _something missing_. He felt sick realising that this is how Sam must have woken up yesterday.

The room was empty, Sam's duffle packed neatly and innocuously on the other bed beside Dean's own train-wreck explosion of clothes and weapons and bottles of shampoo. The kid had pulled the curtains before he left though, and the bright morning sunlight slanted off the face of the TV to hit him directly in the eyes. Dean groaned and rolled out of bed.

A white piece of paper caught his gaze on the night stand. _Gone for breakfast_ was printed in Sam's neat handwriting, resting beside the digital alarm clock that read 6.28. Dean huffed through his nose. Sam had always been a morning person, but running around on less than three hours' sleep was pushing it, even for him.

He decided a shower was in order. If Sam was going to punish his body with lack of sleep, then the least Dean could do was suffer with him.

* * *

Getting back to sleep had been an impossible task, one Sam admitted defeat to somewhere around the time the sun came up. Untangling himself from Dean, he'd decided that if he was up anyway, he might as well do something useful. So after cleaning his knife collection (still sadly smaller than the collection he'd kept in the back of his Mustang before it all went up in literal flames) he dressed and went in search of breakfast.

He stepped in the room just as Dean was exiting the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping from his hair. The scene made Sam's breath catch in his throat and he looked away fast.

"Hey Sammy. You okay, you didn't get much sleep?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Just…thinking about stuff." He looked over to see Dean making a sympathetic face and quickly changed the subject. "I brought breakfast."

The _I-understand-what-you're-going-through _look disappeared as Sam waved the bag in front of Dean's nose. Two muffins covered in frosting and sugar and calories, just how Dean liked them. The older man didn't even bother putting clothes on, demolishing the first in about three bites whilst standing in the middle of the room dripping water on the carpet. Sam watched with a fond grin, his own problems momentarily forgotten.

Dean glanced up, blushing when he noticed Sam watching him. "Sorry." He mumbled through a mouthful of partially chewed cake. His face still tinged pink, he held out the second muffin like a little kid offering his first valentine. "Want some?"

Impulsively, Sam stepped into Dean's space, kissing him lightly on the lips and tasting sweet frosting in the corners of his mouth. "I'm good. You have it." He said, watching Dean from beneath his eyelashes.

Dean smiled back, his head tilting as if he was going to kiss Sam back. Before Sam could be sure, a knock at the door had them stepping apart, flushing as if whoever it was could see them through the wood.

"Boys? You up?" John's deep voice called from the other side.

Dean answered. "Yeah, just a minute dad." Scooping up his clothes, he darted a warm look at Sam before disappearing into the bathroom to get dressed. With a repressed sigh, Sam went to answer the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thanks as always for all your reviews, they inspire me to write faster! I'm sorry that these chapters are a bit shorter than usual, I've been frantically trying to keep up with writing on top of essays and exams :( But I'm nearly done with it all, so I should be able to dedicate a bit more time to this for next week, when we shall get back to the more exciting parts… Next update should be on Tuesday… (btw, I'm not going to be watching the last episodes for a while and I'm desperately trying to stay free of spoilers, so please don't spoil me!)

And to clarify for the people who asked, no they definitely AREN'T brothers in this story…

Chapter 9

Dean left Sam to check out of the motel room while he picked up the Impala from her spot outside the now-ruined house. He was halfway down the street, the sun in his eyes and scratching at the mild hangover creeping around the base of his skull. He should have known whiskey was a bad idea.

"Dean!" He turned to see his father jogging after him, squinting from the glare. "I'll walk with you. Gotta pick up the truck."

Dean nodded once, still not trusting himself to speak civilly to his father. He'd stepped out of the bathroom earlier to find John sitting on his bed, talking earnestly to Sam. The conversation halted as he walked over, and he'd bet anything John had been telling him more about the demon. Details about his mother's death that Sam didn't want to know. Dean loved his father, but his single-minded focus on the cause was one of the reasons Dean left in the first place. His persistent obsession made him insensitive to everything else around him. Every_one _else.

"So. You didn't want to make a night of it then, with that girl?" John tried a smile. Dean didn't smile back.

"No. Sam needed me."

"You and Sam, you're close?" John asked as they started walking again.

"Yep."

"He tell you what I told him last night?" John gave him a sidelong glance, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his heavy black jacket. Even in summer, John dressed for the cold.

"Yeah he did." Dean took a breath, trying to gather his angry thoughts into coherence. "Dad, I can't believe you told him like that. In a _bar_. He shouldn't have found out like that."

John frowned. "Dean, he needed to know. If he's gonna be part of this…"

"Part of what? Part of your fixation with this demon? He's just a kid." _Like I was_. He couldn't say it though, not out loud.

"He might be dangerous!"

Dean stopped, catching John's arm in a heavy grip and turning him so they were face to face. "What? How is knowing or not knowing about his mother's death gonna make him dangerous?"

"If he's like the other kids, he could hurt someone! He could _kill_ someone if he's not careful!"

Dean frowned, his mouth opening wordlessly. A truck drove down the street, kicking up clouds of dust and stopping with a grind of gears. The distraction made them both turn, preventing John from seeing his confusion, his shock. What the hell was his dad talking about? Sam killing someone?

John started walking again, pulling Dean along. "C'mon, let's not talk about this on the street."

* * *

Sam sat on the steps outside the motel office, his eyes closed and his face turned to the sunshine. It felt good on his cheeks, a soft kiss of heat that made him forget everything for a few seconds. The sounds of people walking by along the street, cars passing and birds chirruping in trees, sounds he could lose himself in. He could almost pretend he didn't exist.

Crunching footsteps on gravel brought him out of his meandering thoughts and he opened his eyes to see Caleb's dark form walking across the parking lot toward him.

"Hey kiddo. How's it goin'?"

He smiled at the other man, still amazed to see someone who wasn't Dean genuinely glad to see him. "Good. Dean's gone to get the car. He still doesn't trust me to drive it."

Caleb sat down beside him on the concrete step. "You guys okay now? Notice he didn't take the girl back with him."

Sam blushed and ducked his head, letting his hair fall into his eyes. "No. We…talked. His dad told me some stuff. About the demon, why it knew me."

"Ah." Caleb nodded, looking straight ahead. "Yeah, Johnny told me about that. So, you're special, huh?"

"Yep, that's me. Special." Sam said, staring intently at his feet. "Did he…did he say about the…"

"Psychic stuff? Yeah, he clued me in. So, can you levitate stuff? Set things on fire with your super-powered eyebeams?" The gentle teasing brought a smile to Sam's lips despite the serious query lurking behind the words.

"Nope."

"Ah, that's a shame. Would be cool to throw Winchester across the room and lock him in a closet when he starts pissin' you off. Either one of them." Caleb said with a quick grin.

Sam grinned back and then looked away fast, afraid Caleb might read his lies if he looked at him too long. Not that Caleb could, _he _wasn't the one with the psychic powers.

"So, I met your dad once." Caleb's words, spoken so casually, were almost like an electric shock.

"You…what?"

The other man didn't meet Sam's eyes, picking at a speck of dirt under one of his nails. "Yeah. Coupla years back. Ran into each other, he was researching a necromancer in the area, I said I'd give him a hand."

Sam remembered that job. He'd been thirteen and staying with a guy Jim had known, a martial arts expert. He'd been coming into his growth spurt, his limbs suddenly too long and unwieldy. Jim had sent him off with a disgusted look, saying that he better learn to use his body before he got himself killed.

After two weeks with the little Japanese man, practising his fighting technique all day and sleeping on mats on the ground and eating rice and fish, Sam had been a walking mass of aches and bruises. And then Jim had called him down to Mississippi to take out a bunch of risen-dead.

"We only stuck together a few days." Caleb said, still looking at his hands. "He was doin' some research, drinking… He mentioned he had a son."

Sam stayed quiet, his arms wrapped around his knees.

"No offence, kiddo, but I hated that guy." Caleb finally looked up, a lopsided grin warping the scar on his cheek. Sam felt the air rush out of him in a whuff, his body feeling light in relief.

He gave Caleb a wobbly smile. The older man slapped him lightly on the back, nodding a little like he'd been nervous, wanted to reaffirm that he'd done the right thing.

John's truck rumbled into the lot, gravel spraying under the tires. The Impala followed on its tail, coming to a rest in front of the office. The two cars looked harsh in the soft light, the sharp black shine cutting into the sleepy morning like a blade. They resembled their owners, dominating and powerful, commanding attention from everyone they passed.

Dean stepped out first, his eyes resting on Sam and Caleb sat close together in front of the cars. His step faltered, the grin on his lips wavering for a split second before coming back, brighter and bigger and completely real to anyone who didn't know him as well as Sam did. Sam frowned a little, wondering what Dean had seen to make him hesitate. What he'd heard.

What John might have told him during their walk. Sam felt his muscles lock up and forced himself to relax, to look calm. But what if he knew, what if he'd heard from John that Sam was…

"Hey. Don't you guys look cosy." Dean said, a false note to his voice. Caleb didn't seem to hear it though, grinning up at him and slapping an arm on Sam's back.

"Yeah. Bestest friends and all that."

Dean nodded, the crocodile smile straining at his lips. He stood in front of Sam, not saying anything, looking at some distant point over Sam's left shoulder. John came to stand next to his son, the two Winchesters towering over the steps like dark shadows, out of place in the sunlight.

"Well, guess we better get going then." Dean said in a cheery voice. "C'mon Sam, let's go find us a new job." He held out a hand, but before Sam could take it, John gripped Dean's shoulder.

"Wait a sec. Before you boys take off, I think we better plan a meeting."

"Why do we need to meet? You're gonna be tracking the demon, you find any signs, I'm sure you'll let us know." Dean said, bitterness sneaking in around the edges of his words.

"Yeah, well that's not our only concern." John looked at Sam as he spoke, the skin around his eyes creasing. Sam willed him not to say it, not to bring it up in front of everyone like it was set in stone and solid.

Except apparently mind control wasn't one of his 'special' powers and John went right ahead without noticing Sam's discomfort. "We don't know when, where or what's gonna happen with you, Sam. Maybe nothing. But we should take precautions. We need to be prepared for any eventuality."

The words sounded like a death knell to Sam.

* * *

It was taking every ounce of control Dean had to stay fixed in the one spot, to keep the frown off his face and his mouth shut. What the hell was going on? Precautions for what? Since when did everyone suddenly think Sam was dangerous? And why was everyone else looking like this was old news, like he should already know this?

Sam sat hunched on the step, his knees pressed to his chest. He was hiding behind his hair again and Dean wanted to kneel and brush it away.

Caleb rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, looking at him with sad eyes. Dean wanted to hit the smug fucker.

"Sam." John's deep voice brought all attention to him. Dean was surprised to see his father actually looking concerned. It hurt a little, that the man would be concerned for Sam and not for Dean, not when _he_ had needed it, practically _begged_ for it. But despite his own personal issues, Dean could understand John's reaction. It was impossible not to feel concern for Sam when he looked like that. He was like a beaten puppy, defensive and scared.

"Sam, we're gonna have to keep an eye on you. You're gonna have to keep an eye on yourself." John sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. "If anything…develops, well. We'll deal with it if it comes up."

And Dean wanted to scream at the top of his voice, _what the hell is going on_? Sam nodded, looking wretched. Caleb's hand was still on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing softly in the worn-thin material of Sam's ever-present hoodie.

John turned to face Dean, looking intently at him. Dean did his best to keep his eyes on his dad, pushing away the picture of Caleb petting Sam that was still hooked in his mind. "If anything happens, anything at all, no matter how small, you call me. Caleb and I are gonna keep tracking the demon, we'll keep in touch so you know where we are." He glanced over at Sam. "Keep him with you. And…try not to get into any difficult situations."

Dean's eyes dropped to John's chest without his permission. It was as close to a _be careful, I love you son _that he was going to get from his dad. "Yessir." He spun away too fast, feeling his dad's eyes still on him. "Sam. C'mon, let's get going."

Sam didn't look at him as he nodded, standing quickly. Dean was distantly pleased to note that Sam didn't seem to register Caleb's hand as it dropped away.

* * *

Dean was silent as they drove away from the motel, leaving Caleb and John in their dust tracks. Sam slouched in his seat, feeling thoroughly miserable. They'd only just made up, and now Dean was pissed at him. Again. The sugar-sweet kiss they'd shared in the motel room seemed years ago already.

"Sam? What was dad talking about?" Dean's quietly controlled voice broke the silence, and Sam realised with a start that the heavy rock that usually pounded out an accompanying beat was missing.

He looked in Dean's direction. The older man was staring at the road ahead with gritted determination, his hands at ten and two on the wheel.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I wasn't trying to keep you in the dark, I swear." He blurted, biting his lip to keep the endless apologies to a minimum.

Dean did look over then. His face was neutral, his eyes questioning, but he didn't _seem _angry. "What didn't you tell me? Sam, I don't have a clue what you're talking about. I don't have a clue what my dad was talking about. I don't have a clue about anything, and I'd kinda like to be filled in."

"He didn't say anything?"

"Who?"

"Your dad. I thought…I assumed he told you when you went to get the cars. He didn't?" Sam cocked his head. If Dean didn't know, then why had he been so awkward and stiff when he came back to the motel?

"Dad didn't tell me anything. What's going on?" Sam turned to the window, watching the landscape blur into coloured stripes as the car picked up speed. "Sammy?"

"The kids. The others, that the demon…"

"What about them?"

"They've all turned out to be psychics." Sam said bluntly without looking in Dean's direction. The car jerked and then swerved to the side of the road, stopping with a tire squeal and throwing Sam forward. He stayed in position even after the car was stationary, trying not to allow his hard breathing to become panic. Hyperventilating was something he'd only done a few times in his life, and only during his father's most extreme punishments. But right now he'd give anything to be back with Jim, locked in a tiny closet for a day after leaving a streak of metal polish on one of the knives or huddled outside in the cold rain wearing jeans and a tee shirt, no sneakers or socks, because he locked his car keys in the Mustang.

"Sam." Dean's hand was under his chin, turning his head to face him. He didn't want to look, to see Dean's expression. He was a freak, and now the most important person in his whole universe knew it. "Sammy, look at me."

Hesitantly he peeked up. Dean was watching him sharply, but his hand still cupped Sam's chin. Didn't flinch away in disgust, as Sam had feared.

"What are you saying? Are…are you…?" Dean couldn't finish the sentence, but Sam knew what he was asking.

"Yes." The word came out with a breath before Sam realised he was going to say it. Dean's hand dropped away.

He screwed his eyes shut. Dean didn't want him now, of course he didn't. The older man probably thought Sam could read his mind or something, had been lying to him and manipulating him this whole time.

Sam almost wished he _could _manipulate people. His dad, Dean, Caleb and John. Make them love him, make them _want _him unconditionally, just for being him. But all he had was a head full of slideshow horror, other people's pain and fear to add to his own, and a migraine like a buzz-saw to go with it. Maybe it _would_ drive him mad. Maybe there was only so much hurt one person could take, piling up like handfuls of quarters until eventually, inevitably, your fingers would slip and they'd spill out between the cracks.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean's voice was even. He didn't look Sam's way as he spoke, staring fixedly ahead as if he was still driving, had to keep his eyes on the road.

"I…I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to…" Sam bit his lip hard. "I didn't want you to have another reason to worry about me." _Please don't leave me_, his mind begged.

Dean didn't reply. He sat, still as stone, his hands twisted in the legs of his jeans. A hot streak of sunlight shining through the windscreen burned across his cheekbone like a scar. Finally he turned to Sam, his expression guarded.

"So what can you do?"

Sam made himself keep eye contact. "I get these…visions, I guess. I've only had it happen twice. I thought at first I was just hallucinating or something."

"Visions of what?" Some animation was coming into Dean's face as he spoke, curiosity overwhelming the blank mask.

Sam looked down. "Visions of…hunts, I think. People in danger, things attacking them. I didn't know they were real until last night."

"You saw the demon?" Dean frowned, tilting his head, considering.

"Yeah. I saw it, but in my vision it didn't go that way. In my vision we weren't there."

"So…you saw it…"

"I saw it pin that woman to the ceiling." Sam said, letting out a breath. "I didn't think it was real, y'know? I thought…because we were going to meet your dad, and you said about your mom dying on the ceiling, that I was just having some weird hallucination."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "You said it happened twice?"

"Yeah. It…it was when we were looking for the werewolf, back in Elmstead. I saw the street, and it killed that woman. That's why I came back. But when I got there it was different. You were there, and the wolf didn't kill her in the same way. I just thought 'cause I was with my dad and I…hadn't gotten much sleep, maybe it was just guilt over leaving. But I had to make sure."

Dean stared at him for a long time and Sam could practically hear the thoughts running through his head. Sam was messed up in the head already, and with this added on top…

"There's something else your dad told me." If he was going to confess then Dean should know everything. The other man deserved to know. "He said that the other kids went crazy. That the psychic powers _drove _them crazy."

Dean's eyes darkened, his forehead creasing in a deep frown. Two girls walked past on the sidewalk next to the car, both of them laughing and playfully pushing each other, and it was so out of place and _wrong _that Sam wanted to laugh too. Laugh and laugh and laugh until he broke.

The situation was almost too surreal for Dean to comprehend. Sam had psychic powers. Sam had _visions_, could see other people dying in his head. He couldn't even begin to imagine how to deal with this.

The kid was pale, washed white as bone. He could see how scared Sam was. Finding out how his mother died, finding out the reason for his father's abuse, _living _through it for sixteen years, and now this.

"Dean, if I…go crazy…"

Dean didn't let the kid finish his sentence. "You won't, Sam."

"But…"

"I won't let you." Sam blinked at him, his mouth open in a moue of shock. Dean tried to smile, didn't quite pull it off. "Sammy, I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. You don't need to worry about that."

Sam's lower lip trembled and he blinked hard, like he was trying to fight back tears. "Dean, I don't expect you to look after me. If…if you want me to leave…"

Dean reached out, cupping Sam's cheek in one hand. His face felt hot and fevering, a contrast to its drained-white appearance. "I don't want you to leave. I said I'd watch out for you and that's what I'm gonna do, kid. Not 'cause I have to, 'cause I _want _to." And he did want to, Dean realised with a start. Their…relationship, or whatever it was they had, was complex to begin with. And the promises and commitments kept piling on, tying them together inextricably. Before he met Sam, Dean thought commitment was terrifying, something for people who were older, who'd lived their lives and didn't want to die alone, for people who _weren't him_. But now, now he couldn't imagine ever being without Sam. He didn't want to. "I promise, Sammy. It's gonna be okay."


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter, I'm glad you're still enjoying this :) Here's the next one, so please don't be shy in letting me know what you think, even if it's just to say you liked/hated it! The next update should be on Sunday if all goes well…

Chapter 10

"There's one thing I don't get about all this." Sam said, his gaze firmly pinned to the newspaper in his lap. Dean risked a glance in the kid's direction, regretting it as a grey Volvo came up too close on his left side. He repressed the curse that came to his lips and shifted gears. God, he hated driving on the freeway.

"What's that?"

"Uh, well." Sam bit his lip and looked up, staring straight ahead. "It's just, if your dad knew the kids whose moms…you know, died, were turning out to be…psychics," he choked a little on the word " then wouldn't he have warned you? Your mom died that way too. And, there's something else. He had this…list. Names of the kids. Mine was on it. Yours wasn't."

Dean took a heavy breath, exhaling through his nose. He winced as a truck passed, indicating and switching to the far left lane. No point leaving yourself open to attacks from both sides if one could be covered, so said John Winchester. "Yeah. Well, I guess that's not the only thing that doesn't fit the profile."

Sam did look across at him then, a tiny frown creasing his slanted fox-sharp eyes. "What do you mean?"

Dean shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, wishing they weren't in a moving car and he didn't have to be sat next to Sam like a wax dummy. That he could get up, turn away, stop the kid from seeing his unguarded expressions. No matter how close they were, he would never be comfortable letting his mask slip around others. But Sam had trusted him…

"Okay. It's just…all the other kids, you included. Their moms died when they were babies, right? On their six-month birthday. That's obviously significant in some way, the demon obviously planned it like that."

"Yeah?" Sam said, pressing. Dean's grip tightened on the wheel.

"Well, my mom didn't."

"What?"

"She didn't die on my six-month birthday. She didn't die in my nursery."

Sam was quiet for a second and Dean could see him chewing his lower lip as he digested the information. A pink Volkswagon Beetle pulled sharply into the lane in front of him and he almost welcomed the distraction, swearing and hitting the heel of his hand on the horn. Stupid woman in her stupid pink car.

"Oh." Sam finally spoke. "So, uh, what did happen?"

"She died on the ceiling. But, ah, it wasn't a nursery. It was our spare room, she used it as a studio. She liked painting." Dean tried to keep his breathing even, his tone light. He hadn't told anyone about his mother's death, not the details. Other hunters already knew, had heard it from John or it was passed along the network to them. Normal people had asked, people from the schools he attended as a kid, from college. He'd just shrugged off their put-on sympathy, telling them she died in a fire and changing the subject.

Sam didn't move next to him, didn't offer any false words of comfort.

"I wasn't a baby, either. I was four years old. I heard her scream, heard my dad come running upstairs, and then I felt the heat on my face. My dad told me to run outside, fast as I can, so I did. I guess he tried to save her, but he…but he couldn't, and he ran out, scooped me up, just as the…the blast from the fire blew out the window of her studio." Dean stopped himself, clenching his jaw and swallowing down the other words, the millions of words that wanted to escape now that he had voiced the subject. His mind recalled the night, the ambulances and fire engines and police cars. His neighbours in the street in their nightclothes, and he could remember thinking _it's cold out, I better get my Scooby Doo bathrobe_, but John had stopped him before he'd taken two steps toward that wreck of a house, picking him up and sitting him firmly on his lap.

"Dean…" Sam said, and Dean could hear the puppy-dog eyes in the kid's voice.

He flashed a tight grin, one of his best, over at Sam. "Hey, it was a long time ago. It's fine."

Sam looked at him with big eyes, blinking sadly. Another truck brought his attention back to the road and suddenly he had his hands full, heaving the wide Impala over and flipping the guy off when he decided his lumber truck could beat Dean's baby in an impromptu drag race. Dean floored it, flying out ahead and barely resisting thumping his hands on the wheel in victory. He almost didn't catch Sam's final comment on the subject, spoken softly but with vehemence.

"It's _not _fine." Dean let out a breath. He didn't look over.

* * *

Dean had been quiet for the rest of the drive, turning up Metallica to an ear-splitting level and tapping along with the beat, his jaw clenched. Sam had taken to glancing over every few seconds, waiting for him to calm down and wondering if he did the right thing in pressing the subject. But, he reasoned, he had to know. They shouldn't have secrets from each other, not in a case this big.

They stopped for the night in a tiny roadside motel, the neon sign flickering _vacancy _on and off as they approached.

He stepped out of the Impala, waiting for Dean to join him. But the other man stayed seated, revving the engine a little.

"Hey Sam, I'm gonna go pick up some food. You alright booking the room?" Sam leaned down, trying to see Dean's face through the glass on the passenger side, but the car was pulling away before he could catch a glimpse.

He sighed and watched Dean speed away, ignoring the tiny part of him screaming in terror _Dean's going, he's going and he's not coming back. _Dean would come back. Dean had promised he'd come back, and he hadn't broken that promise in all the time they were together.

Sam turned and trudged toward the office.

* * *

Dean returned forty minutes later carrying grease-soaked bags of cold McDonald's. He gave Sam a quick grin that stretched over his teeth like his skin was pulled too tight and stepped into the bathroom without a word. Outside the sun was setting, another day almost over.

Sam picked at the soggy fries disinterestedly. Why did he have to ask all those questions? If Dean had wanted him to know, he would have said something in his own time.

Except it _meant _something. Dean's mom hadn't died in the same circumstances as his own, but the demon had still targeted her. There had to be a reason why.

For the first time in six months Sam wished he was on speaking terms with his father. Jim Miller must have known how his wife died, must have put together a theory. In a way he wasn't unlike John Winchester, both determined to exact vengeance on their wife's killers and both so focused on the goal that they sometimes neglected the people around them. Although Jim Miller's version of _neglect _was worlds apart from John's, Sam thought blackly.

The fries tasted a little better with ketchup, Sam discovered. He pried apart the burger, picking at the unappetising meat with its luminous cheese coating. In the bathroom Dean dropped something, cursing and banging.

John knew more than he was letting on. He couldn't have missed the differences between his own wife's murder and that of the other children. Sam sighed, picking up his cell phone from its resting place beside his disassembled quarter pounder. He scrolled through his address book until John's number flashed on the screen.

And then dropped the phone with a clatter on the tabletop. John wouldn't tell _him_. John thought he was going to end up killing them all.

Sam dropped his head onto his crossed arms, hunching over the table.

"Sammy, you okay there?" Dean's voice behind him made Sam start, jerking round. He hadn't heard the water stop, or the door to the bathroom open. Dean was standing beside the bed, a tee shirt in one hand and a pair of green striped boxers riding low on his waist.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "You don't look fine, kid. What's up?"

Sam huffed out another breath. "Nothing, I guess, it's just…it doesn't make sense."

Dean closed his eyes for a second, looking suddenly drained and white. He dropped the tee shirt he held, coming to sit on the edge of the bed closest to Sam. "This is really bothering you, isn't it? This whole demon business."

"I just don't get it. Why you? Why me and all these other children? I mean, there has to be a reason for it, doesn't there?"

Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor between his feet for a long moment before speaking. "It's a demon, Sam. It's not always…logical."

"But that's just it!" Sam said, jumping to his feet and beginning to pace. "Most of the demon's I've hunted have been...they've had patterns, predictable behaviour. This one seems to be more intelligent than most, or at least it has a thought-out plan. It _is_ being logical. Except…"

"Except when it comes to me, right?" Dean said with a bitter laugh. "I'm the anomaly here. It killed my mom, and it didn't even have a reason to do it."

Sam stopped, turning to face Dean. The older man was staring straight ahead, his mouth drawn tight. Droplets of water trickled unnoticed down his face, tracing his features. Sam felt like smacking himself. Dean was hurting and he was oblivious to it, so focused on the hunt and this demon, on questioning everything, that he didn't realise he was ripping open old wounds for the other man.

Dean wished Sam would just…shut up, just leave him alone for a second, give him time to think. It was like being with John Winchester all over again. Watching his father pace back and forth in a tiny motel room while Dean perched, quiet and out of the way, on a bed. Listening to John talk himself through theories, ideas about hunts and demons and the best ways to kill them. And now Sam seemed to have caught this obsession, this addiction. Dean hated the goddamn yellow-eyed demon. Hated it with everything he had. It seemed to take everyone from him, drag them away and leave him behind to watch brokenly as they forgot all about him.

And he couldn't even blame Sam. The kid was _right_. There was a pattern to this thing, and he didn't fit it. Part of him wanted desperately to know _why_, to know the reason behind his mother's death. But another, quieter part whispered that he'd be happy to forget all about the fucking demon if he could only keep what was left of his family to himself.

"Dean, I'm sorry." Sam's quiet words surprised him, making him look up. The kid was standing to one side, watching him with a repentant expression. "I…I should've known you didn't wanna talk about this."

Dean closed his eyes, bringing a hand up to press thumb and forefinger into his temples. "It's okay, Sammy. I get it. Honestly, I do. I wanna know why as well. But…can we talk about it tomorrow? Please?"

"Sure." Sam offered a tentative smile that nearly broke Dean's heart. God, he couldn't lose Sam to this hunt. He couldn't stand to lose anyone else.

Sam hesitantly stepped closer and Dean put on a grin, rolling his eyes in exaggerated exasperation. He reached out a hand, catching Sam's wrist and pulling him roughly into his lap. He caught a flash of teeth in the thickening dark, Sam grinning back at him, before a hot mouth was pressed to his own. Falling back, Dean wrapped arms around Sam's waist, nimble hands searching out soft skin. It was good and familiar and Dean let his mind switch itself off.

* * *

"Okay, so what do we know about the demon?" Dean asked, keeping his reluctance at broaching the subject carefully out of his voice. Sam looked up in surprise, obviously not expecting Dean to initiate the conversation. But, Dean thought to himself, Sam was going to want to do this, no matter what Dean wanted. And maybe if he was with Sam every step of the way, maybe if he made this fixation his own, then he would get Sam back afterward.

And maybe talking about demons in the middle of the breakfast rush in the local diner hadn't been Dean's best idea. A woman near enough to overhear his question was quick to pull her two small sons closer to her, watching Dean with wary eyes.

Sam sat on the opposite side of their table, one hand poised halfway to his mouth, pancakes and syrup slipping off the fork. "Dean, are you sure you wanna talk about this? We don't have to, your dad's dealing with it. I'm sure he'll let us know what's going on when he finds out." Neither of them voiced the certainty that John already knew exactly what was going on.

"Yeah. It's…important to you. And I know you. You won't let yourself have any peace until you've figured everything out." Dean said with a half-grin. Sam blushed a little.

"Okay. Well, I was thinking. I'd…assume your dad knows more than he's telling us." Sam said carefully. "But I doubt he'd tell us, what with the whole 'crazy' thing."

"Yeah." Dean said awkwardly. John probably wouldn't tell Dean anything, even if he _wasn't_ afraid that Sam might flip out. He never had before.

"But…_my_ dad would probably know more about my mom's death. If we knew what happened with me, it might give us some insight."

"No. We are _not _talking to your dad. I don't care what he might know, it's not worth it." Dean thumped his hand on the table for emphasis, his own forkful of waffles falling back onto his plate with the impact and the mother ushering her two sons further away from the crazy man.

"I wasn't planning to." Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't wanna see him any more than you do."

"Okay. That's settled." Dean said firmly, narrowing his eyes. "So, what?"

"So, I thought maybe I could call up one of his friends. They might know more about it. There's this guy, Stephen. He was always nice to me. He would help me if he could."

Dean chewed a mouthful of eggs, his mind thinking it through. "And he wouldn't tell your dad you'd been in contact? 'Cause, no offence Sammy, but I really don't wanna deal with your crazy father coming after us if he found out where you were."

Sam shook his head. "Not if I asked him not to. He's a good guy."

Dean shovelled another forkful of food into his mouth. It sounded like a good plan, assuming this guy was as decent as Sam seemed to think. It would give them somewhere to start, at least.

Sam used Dean's laptop to email Stephen from the diner, detailing the information they wanted and asking him to keep their enquiries quiet. Silently sending thanks for public wireless connections, he hit 'send' and sat back in the plastic booth, watching Dean demolishing the last of his waffles and eggs and waving the waitress over to place another order for French toast.

Stephen replied before Dean's toast came. The email consisted of a single brusque sentence: _Better to tell you in person. _Sam could recall the last time he visited the ex-hunter, remembered the route perfectly. He just hoped the other man hadn't moved.

Dean paused as they stepped out of the diner, watching Sam with concerned eyes. "Kid, are you _sure _this guy is alright?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. He'll help us if he can."

"'Cause I don't wanna get there and find your dad waiting on the front steps."

"He won't be. I trust Stephen." Sam said with a firm nod. Dean looked unconvinced.

* * *

It took the best part of the day to drive to the tiny town Stephen Layson resided in. After losing part of a leg, Stephen had chosen to give up hunting and become a full-time computer genius, but unfortunately his near-unbeatable hacking skills made him unpopular with law enforcement. So the ex-hunter was forced to live remotely, only handing out his address to a privileged few. Luckily Sam was one of them.

Dean made a few sounds of complaint when Sam directed him up a narrow dirt track, hissing through his teeth every time the outside of the Impala scraped against overgrown bushes or bounced in a rut. Privately Sam thought his overzealous concern was funny, turning to face the passenger side window before Dean spotted the grin splitting his face.

"Goddamnit!" Dean said, wincing as a branch scraped along the roof of the car. "This guy better have some damn good information!"

"Dean, calm down, the car's gonna be fine." Sam said, trying to sound placating and not quite succeeding.

"Easy for you to say, it's not _your _baby getting beat up." Sam bit his lip to stop the smile spreading again and turned back to the window.

After driving along the dirt road for nearly ten minutes the house suddenly became visible through the trees in front of them. Next to Sam, Dean let out an audible sigh of relief.

Stephen lived in a rundown brick building that was too big to be called a house. Sam had walked around the perimeter more than once as a kid, thinking it was more like a mansion in scale, complete with creeping vines and weeds practically growing into the building. It looked deserted from the outside, as if no one had touched it for decades. The roof was caving in at one corner and a long crack reaching up from the ground to the second storey displayed the subsidence along the front wall of the old building.

Sam stepped out of the car, stretching his arms up and hearing his back pop. On the other side Dean stepped out, looking dubiously at the house.

"Sam, are you sure this guy lives here? I mean, c'mon, this place is a wreck."

"That's the idea." Sam said, grinning at the older man across the roof of the car. "No one'd look for a one-legged man in a place like this."

Sam started walking toward the house, leaving Dean blinking at his back.

"One-legged? The guy only has _one leg_?"

"Yep. The other one was bitten off a few years ago."

Dean jogged to catch up with him. "Bitten off? By what?"

"A Tannin. He was hunting it in New York." Sam said, looking around for any sign of Stephen. That the old man knew they were here was a certainty. Sam wouldn't have been surprised to know that the ex-hunter had been tracking them since they'd turned into his intentionally perilous dirt track.

"Huh." Dean pulled a face, blinking a few times before leaning in close with a serious expression. "Did it eat it?"

"Eat what?" Sam said distractedly.

"The leg. Did it eat it?"

Sam stopped, blinking at Dean for a few seconds. "What-_why _does that matter?"

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't, particularly. I just wondered."

Sam slapped the older man on the shoulder and walked away without replying, shaking his head in amused disbelief. Sometimes Dean was just _weird_.

He was broken out of his thoughts as he approached the front door. Before he could reach a hand up to knock, it was yanked open sharply. He stepped back, nearly colliding with Dean in his surprise. He could feel the other man close at his back, could practically see Dean's tense expression, his loaded gun held tight in one hand.

And then a hunched and grey-haired man appeared in the doorway, wooden crutches snug under his armpits and one leg of the neatly-pressed tan slacks pinned to stop it dragging along the ground. Stephen looked older than Sam remembered, his face careworn and lined like scrunched up yellow paper. But his crinkled smile was the same and he hobbled out to welcome Sam with warm eyes.

"Sam, boy, where've you been?" The gruff voice brought a smile to Sam's lips and he stepped into the one-armed embrace the old man offered.

"Hey Stephen."

Behind him, he could almost feel Dean relaxing, snapping the safety back on his gun and sticking it out of sight, ready to be whipped out should anything threatening occur.

"You know, your father's been going absolutely stupid over your vanishing act." Sam looked at his feet, nodding.

"I know. But…I had to. I couldn't stay. Not with him."

Stephen let out a heavy sigh. "I thought as much. Don't look so sad, now, I ain't judging." Sam peeked up with a grateful smile.

"Now why don't you both c'mon in and we'll get talking about why you're really here." Stephen said, waving them inside.

Sam nodded again and followed the old man as he made his way slowly through the house. "This is Dean."

Dean smiled absently as he took in his surroundings with surprise. Sam knew how he felt. The inside of the house was a complete contrast to the shabby state of the exterior. The wide, high-ceilinged hallway was decorated with huge acrylic paintings of men and women, all of them wearing eighteenth century dress. Mouldings on the ceiling itself looked freshly painted. He remembered the first time he saw this house at eight years old, the overwhelming scale of the place making him feel tiny and insignificant. Every painting was spotlessly clean, and Sam wondered for a second how the old man still managed to polish and dust with a leg missing.

"I know." Stephen shot a wink back at them. "D'ya think I couldn't keep track of you if I wanted to, boy? Dean Winchester, right? Heard of your father." The grey-haired man suddenly stopped and turned to face them both, a bright gleam in his eyes. "And to answer your question, no, the Tannin didn't eat the leg. Gave it a good chew, though. Didn't particularly want it back."

Sam grinned broadly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean's face turned deep red. Stephen barked a laugh at Dean's stuttered attempt to respond, spinning deftly on his crutches and continuing toward the kitchen.

"You didn't say much in your email, but I might be of some help to you boys."

"Well, we're just trying to figure out what's going on. What…what it has to do with us." Dean said, the blush still hot on his cheeks.

"Well I should think your father'd be the one to go to about that." Stephen said to Dean, coming to a stop in front of the kitchen door. "Winchester's been following the signs, I'll bet."

"Yeah. He has," Dean said curtly. "But he hasn't told us anything past…Sam's mother dying." Sam let out a mental sigh of relief when Dean skipped over his visions. No matter how much he trusted Stephen, he wasn't ready to let anyone who wasn't Dean in on that secret.

Stephen nodded, his eyes sad suddenly. "Yep. I'm sorry your father never told you himself, Sam."

Sam smiled tightly and looked away. He wasn't sorry. If he'd known exactly how his mother had died, if Jim had sneered and spat the words in his face during one of his many punishments then Sam might not have been able to stay strong enough, might not have lasted until Dean came into his life.

"So what can you tell us?"

Stephen sighed and led them into the bright kitchen. The room was as perfectly clean as the hallway, complete with yellow tulips in a vase on the enormous kitchen table. A closed laptop sat innocuously at one end, connected to black wires that trailed through a neat hole cut into the wall. Sam remembered Stephen's old bulky computer in its place, the wires connected to cameras and motion detectors spotted all through the house and grounds. In front of the laptop was a wide wooden chair piled with red cushions. Stephen made his way over to it and lowered himself down, propping his crutches against the table.

"I'll tell you what I can, what I know. You boys had better sit down."


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review, your comments really do inspire me to write faster :) A few of you probably recognised Stephen from 'Full Moon, Fast Cars', I did mention him briefly as one of Sam's contacts in the earlier chapters of that story. I liked him as a character, so I thought I'd bring him back for a bigger role. A Tannin, which I didn't mention last chapter, is a Jewish sea-serpent demon Stephen hunted in the New York sewer system a few years before Sam and Dean met. The next update will be on Wednesday…

Chapter 11

"Can I get you boys anything to drink? Coffee?" Stephen made to get up again, scraping crutches clumsily along the floor. Sam jumped up immediately, his long legs striding across the large kitchen.

"Here, let me do that."

Stephen acquiesced with a nod. "Coffee maker needs refilling. Mugs are in the top cabinet. Refrigerator's over there." He gestured with a hand in the vague direction of the kitchen appliances. Sam smiled and jumped to it, banging cabinets and digging through the refrigerator. The coffee maker was switched on, percolating loudly in it's corner. Dean felt like he should help as well, started to rise from his chair.

"Just a second now, Dean." Stephen stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I need to ask you some things. Privately."

Dean blinked. "Uh, okay."

Stephen leaned forward, his lined face alert and serious. "You took that boy in, saved him from his father. I want to know why."

The abrupt and unexpected question hit Dean like a punch in the stomach, all the air seeming to drain from his lungs. The old man was watching him sharply, no hint of the black humour now. He felt like Stephen was reading his mind, and as if on cue a series of not-so-innocent images flashed through his head. His immediate reaction of 'I'm not a paedophile, Sam's just special' was thankfully caught before it could escape his mouth. "Uh, I…"

Stephen's face suddenly relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. "Oh, don't look like that. It's just a question."

Dean felt indignant. "Hey, you surprised me with it."

"Well, now that you've had time to recover from the shock, maybe you'd think about answering it?"

Dean took a breath, feeling like he was preparing for an exam. "Sam, he…needed help. I helped him 'cause I could. He didn't deserve that, _no one _deserves that, but especially not Sam. He's…" He trailed off, not quite sure exactly what Sam _was_, but certain that whatever it was, Sam was a lot of it.

"Ah." Stephen nodded thoughtfully. "And you care about him." It wasn't a question but Dean answered anyway.

"Yessir."

Behind them the coffee maker shut off, leaving them in quiet. The sounds of Sam making coffee drifted over on the air.

Stephen leaned in close again, lowering his voice. "There's some things you're gonna want to know, if you're after that demon. Some things that, maybe, Sam ain't ready for." Dean frowned in confusion and started to ask what the hell he was talking about, but Stephen cut him off with a raised hand. "I'll tell you later. Don't mention it to the boy yet, not until I've told you everything. It's been a while since I saw him last, and like I said, maybe he ain't ready to know. But you can be the judge of that, after I explain." On the same breath, Stephen turned and called to Sam in the kitchen. "And maybe you could bring over that plate of cookies while you're there, boy. Don't want my guests going hungry, now."

Dean was prevented from asking further questions by Sam's return. The kid held a mug of coffee in each hand, placing one in front of Stephen and handing the other over to him with a sweet smile. Dean smiled back, suddenly feeling happy to be there, despite anything Stephen might have to tell him. His father was far away along with Caleb and the demon, he was sitting in this big spotless house with food and coffee freely provided, the scent of fresh flowers was drifting in the air and Sam was smiling like everything was right with the world.

Sam rejoined them with his own mug and the plate of cookies. "So. You said you knew something about how my mom died?"

Stephen nodded. "Yep. Your father told me, after we worked together on that hoodoo thing, back when you were a boy." He took a delicate sip of the hot coffee. "I don't know much, mind, but your father told me what happened."

"And?" Sam leaned forward, all eager eyes like a puppy with a new toy. Dean mentally sighed. So much for his feelings of contentment. He reached over to the plate of cookies, snagging two.

Stephen took another sip of coffee, taking his time over it. "Well, you were just a tiny baby. Six months old that night. Your father was working late, he said your mother had already put you to bed before he got back. He came home and your mother called to him from upstairs, said she'd left him some dinner."

Sam was biting his lip and at first Dean thought he was just impatient, wanted Stephen to get to the main part of the story. But his eyes were dull and his fingers were twitching in his lap, as if he was searching for a weapon. It was the first time anyone had told him about his mother, Dean realised. The first time Sam had ever heard about her, beyond the description of her death.

"Jim was helping himself to the food in the kitchen when it happened. It was dark out and the lights had been off when he came in, but as soon as he switched on the kitchen light, it started to flicker. And then he heard your mother scream."

Dean put down the half-eaten cookie he was holding. It tasted dry and flavourless in his mouth.

"Jim went running upstairs, but your mother wasn't in the bedroom. By the time he got to the nursery, he said, the demon had vanished, and all that was left was your mother. On the ceiling. Her throat was cut."

"So, what did he do?" Sam said softly, his gaze focused on Stephen's downcast eyes.

"What could he do? The room erupted in flames a few seconds after he spotted her. He picked you up and ran."

"He saved me?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"He did." Stephen said gently. "But your mother was dead before anyone could help her. Jim didn't stick around after the police were done talking to him. He took you to your grandmother's house; your mother's mother. I think…I think it was his intention to leave you with her, to let you grow up there while he hunted down the demon. But she died before your second birthday, and there wasn't anyone else to take you in."

"Oh." Sam said, watching his hands wringing together in his lap. Dean waited for him to speak, to ask the questions he'd been asking ever since they left John's company. But the kid didn't look up.

Stephen let them sit in silence for a few moments, watching Sam carefully and drinking his coffee.

Dean wanted to reach out and hug Sam to him, kiss the side of his head and tell him it was okay. But under Stephen's watchful gaze he couldn't make himself move. Besides, he told himself, Sam probably wouldn't like the public display of affection anyway.

Stephen drained the last of his coffee, putting the mug down with a thump. "Well now, it's getting late. You boys got a room in town for the night?"

Dean waited for Sam to say something, but the kid seemed not to hear the question. "No sir." He replied. "We were gonna book into that motel a few miles back when we were done here."

"Ah, you don't want to stay there. Cockroaches and rats." The old man shook his head in disgust. "How about I put you up for the night. Plenty of rooms in this old place, never use most of them. They're all clean though, which is more than I could say for that motel."

Dean smiled gratefully before remembering Stephen's private talk. Of course the old man wasn't going to let them leave yet. He caught himself before he could shake his head. _Sly old bastard_, he thought to himself, half-irritated and half-admiring. Man was sneakier than John Winchester.

* * *

Sam honestly thought he was ready. Thought he could handle hearing about his mother, his father. He knew Stephen had been deliberately sparse with the details, but it still felt like a knife to the stomach. And he wanted to laugh at himself, call himself a pussy like Dean would and just _get over it_. Because, really, it's not like he hadn't assumed his mom cooked dinner or put him to bed before, or that his dad worked a regular job. And _of_ _course _it was his dad who carried him out of the house, there was no one else to do it. But just hearing someone else say it made it feel brand new, a fantastically unimagined possibility. Once upon a time he had a normal family that loved him.

Dean was still sitting next to him at the huge kitchen table. He could feel the older man's eyes on him, the twitching hand in his lap that said he wanted to reach out and touch Sam but was too self-conscious to actually do it. Stephen was pottering around in the kitchen, making some kind of dinner for them. Sam distantly thought that he should get up and offer to help, but right then he wasn't sure his legs would support him.

"Hope you boys like reheated lasagne." Stephen called across the kitchen.

Dean answered for the both of them. "It's fine, thanks."

Sam heard the click and hum of the microwave, the low sound almost soothing. He watched his hands twisting together with detached interest, as if they belonged to someone else.

His mom died on the ceiling. His dad carried him to safety. And then…

And then, somehow, his dad hated him. Sam wanted to ask why, what had he done to make the man who had cared enough to save his life hate him? He'd always assumed it was his mother's death that caused that resentment, but Stephen said that Jim had taken him to his grandmother's, had wanted him to live normally. Hadn't had any intention of bringing him up as a hunter. So the hate occurred some time after his mother died. Some time between his six-month birthday and his two-year birthday.

A plate appeared in front of him on the table and he jerked, surprised. He lifted his head and saw Stephen looking at him kindly. "There you go, boy, eat it up. Then you can get to bed. It'll be better in the morning."

Stephen turned back to the kitchen, probably to begin cleaning up. Sam remembered the nights eating ice cream on the old man's couch as a child. The conditions had been simple; one, you earn your ice cream by practising hard with the hand gun during the day, two, you eat all your dinner beforehand, and three, you clean up after yourself straight away once you finish so the melted ice cream and chocolate sauce doesn't set hard in the bowl. Sam had been eight on his first visit to Stephen, and the most memorable thing about it was his first ever taste of chocolate sauce.

He could hear Stephen running the water in the sink, picking up plates and mugs. Sam picked up the fork, lifted it halfway to the lasagne in front of him and paused, staring at the melted cheese and red-brown sauce. Dean sighed softly next to him, and then the other man's hand was on his knee under the table, squeezing gently.

"C'mon Sammy, don't make me feed you." He glanced to the side where Dean was grinning at him. The playful expression didn't quite conceal the worry in his eyes. "'Cause I will, you know. Complete with choo-choo train noises. It'll embarrass you more than it'll embarrass me, I'll tell you now."

Sam tried on a smile that wobbled a bit, but it seemed to erase some of the concern in Dean's eyes. The other man turned back to his own food and Sam watched him for a second, his gaze tracing the silhouette of his forehead, nose, chin. A burst of warmth spread through his chest, lightening some of the pressure put there by Stephen's story. He may not have parents, he may not know why his father began to hate him, he may go nuts and try to kill everyone with his fricking _brain_, but he'd found Dean.

He scooped up a forkful of cheesy meat and began to eat.

* * *

Stephen waved them away when they attempted to help him wash the dirty dishes, pointing them in the direction of the door and telling them to get themselves to bed. Dean wasn't too sure where _bed _would be located, but from the looks of things Sam knew where they were going. The kid seemed to have snapped out of his funk. Dean was glad. Sam insisted on burdening himself with so much more than he deserved, and Dean was determined to break him of the habit one day.

Dean jogged outside to pick up their bags from the car, meeting Sam at the foot of the wide stairway in the hall. "You sure the car will be alright out front?" He couldn't help asking.

Sam rolled his eyes. "The car'll be fine, Dean."

Sam led the way up the staircase, pointing to the left when it branched out into two. The steps were gleaming white with a thick red carpet running along the middle, and Dean wondered how an old one-legged guy kept this place so clean.

"Dude, how big _is _this place?"

"Huge." Sam answered as they stepped into another hallway, complete with more paintings, this time of landscapes. "I dunno exactly how big, I've never seen it all. I don't think Stephen uses many of the upstairs rooms; he's always in the kitchen or the study room when I've been here. He has his own bedroom downstairs."

Sam stopped outside the first door they came across, opening it and waiting for Dean to go in. He blinked and shuffled his feet, not meeting Sam's eyes. "Uh, Sammy, won't he notice if we're, uh…"

"Sharing?" Sam finished for him.

"Yep."

Sam gave him a quick grin. "Dean, I said his bedroom was _downstairs_. I doubt he'll be checking to make sure we're in bed past lights-out."

"Oh." Dean grinned back. "Okay."

He stepped into the room and stopped short, letting out a low whistle. "Christ, this place is like a palace."

The room was at least thirty square feet. In the centre, a huge emperor-sized four poster bed dominated, complete with carved wooden posts and heavy satin curtains. The walls were lined with yet more landscape pictures and a door to the left suggested it had an en-suite bathroom.

Sam came to stand next to him, smiling. "Yeah, it is kinda. This is the room I used to stay in when I was here. I was so nervous the first time I slept in the bed. I was only eight, and I thought I was gonna do something stupid, like rip the sheets in the night." He waved to the other door. "That's the bathroom. There's a massive bathtub in there if you wanna have a wash. No shower, unfortunately."

Dean poked his head inside, eyes widening at the sheer size of the tub. It'd probably be big enough to fit both him _and _Sam with room to spare. Both of them wet and surrounded by warm water and bubbles and…he cut off the train of thought abruptly and withdrew his head, willing Sam not to notice the blush staining his cheeks. "I think I'll pass on the bath."

Sam looked up from his place by the side of the bed quizzically. "Okay…So, uh, which side do you want?"

"Side?"

"Of the, uh, bed." Now Sam's cheeks were heating to rival his own.

Dean huffed on a laugh. Christ, they were gonna turn into an old married couple. "Whichever. I'll go wash up." He spun and made a hasty exit from the room.

Several minutes later, his blush had subsided and he felt safe enough to venture back out. "Sammy, I'm done in the…" He trailed off. Sam was already asleep, curled up under the covers in a tiny ball. Dean always wondered how the kid managed to make himself so small, considering the size of him.

He padded over to the bed, stripping to his boxers and slipping carefully under the covers. As soon as he was settled Sam murmured indistinctly and rolled over, pushing his way into Dean's arms and snuggling unashamedly. Dean would probably have to mock the kid for it when they woke up, but he was smiling too hard to put much thought into it.

* * *

Sam dreamt of a knife.

He'd always been more comfortable hunting with a blade, any blade. It had been the one skill he'd come upon naturally in his training. When he wielded a knife, all his doubts and fears and concerns fell away, taken over by an innate sense of artistry and primal pleasure. Knives were things of beauty, deadly instruments that only had one purpose; to cut. And Sam respected that power, used it with reverence. When he was younger he'd imagined them singing for him, humming at a level only he could hear as they cut through the air and imbedded themselves in the target.

But the knife of his dream, _this _knife wasn't the elegant curve of metal that he took honour in using. This knife was a brutal tool; one long edge with a cruel twisted tip, a hook that would dig deep into flesh and _tear_, ripping messily through fragile skin and blood and internal organs to leave a person screaming at the sight of their ruined intestines dragged in pieces from their body.

This knife wouldn't sing for him. Sam hated this knife, felt disgust for it on the deepest level.

He held it in one hand, the hilt wrapped in old cracked leather that felt like human skin in his sweaty grip. He wanted to drop it but his fingers held fast, disobeying. The longer he held it, the closer it was to sensing him, to feeling his presence and infecting him with something unspeakable.

Sam tried to pry it from his hand with the other, scratching at his own knuckles in growing desperation. He had to get _rid _of this knife. His fingernails dragged at skin, red lines rising along the back of his hand and wrist in fiery strips. But still his unresponsive hand refused to let go.

And then his scratching was stilled. His hand was frozen in a claw by his side, unmoving until _something _forced it to relax. A lick of ice slipped along the back of his neck and Sam couldn't do anything to stop it, could only shiver in the containment of his own mind. The arm holding the knife moved and he was helpless, because now the knife had control, now it wanted to _cut_. His other arm straightened of its own accord, reaching out with palm facing up and Sam could _see _it happening, could feel the movement of bones and the clench of muscles.

The knife came to rest against the blue-veined skin of his outstretched arm, the outer curve pressed on the shadowed bend of his elbow. The blade was sharp, sharp enough to whisper through the top layers of skin, bringing a fine red line to the surface.

Sam screamed in his head, pushed at the restraining _thing _that kept him locked up tight and powerless. There was something in his body, something in _him _that could take control at any time and make him hurt.

And then the knife was turned in his hand, turned so the other side was against flesh, the side that led to the wicked tip. A long drag and that hooked tip would be chewing messily through tendons and arteries, severing muscles and scraping bone. His arm would hang useless, an extraneous lump of meat at his side holding on by threads of jagged skin.

The knife began to cut.

* * *

Sam woke up with a scream lodged in his throat. His body was shiny with sweat, wracked with uncontrollable shivers and he frantically grabbed at his arm, just to prove to himself that he _could_.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean was sitting up in bed next to him, one hand extended like he wasn't sure if he should touch or not. "Christ, Sammy, are you okay?"

He panted on air, trying to find enough to speak. The room around him was too big, too much space. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, flopping forward to hide in Dean's chest. He could feel the other man's surprise at the sudden clingy hold but he soon relaxed, sliding his arms around to cradle Sam close.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. It's all okay." Dean whispered softly into his hair, nuzzling his face gently.

He felt his pounding heart begin to slow and his body calming in increments, Dean's hand rubbing up and down his back.

"What happened?" Dean asked quietly.

"Had a nightmare. 'S nothing. Just freaked myself out." Sam said, the words muffled by Dean's shoulder.

Dean let out a soft laugh. "I hardly think this qualifies as _nothing_, Sammy. You haven't had a nightmare this bad in months."

Sam rubbed his face against Dean's collarbone, letting the feel of skin on skin calm him. "Yeah, well. Guess everything just caught up with me. I'll be alright now."

Dean huffed into his hair but didn't say anything, instead lowering them both back to the bed and arranging their bodies so Sam could press into his chest.

* * *

Dean waited for Sam to fall asleep again before sliding out from under him. He felt around in the dark for his discarded clothes, putting them on as quietly as possible.

He'd hoped that maybe this wouldn't affect Sam so badly, this demon business. Hoped in vain. How could it not affect him, when the kid was so twisted up in all of it like a bird caught in wire? He cursed John Winchester again as he pulled on his jeans. Sam might have needed to know about his mom, might have needed to know about the psychic powers, but he didn't need to hear that all the kids previous had become insane killers.

He stepped out of the room, shutting the door as gently as possible and hoping Sam didn't wake up again until he was back. The hallway was dark, so he made his way back to the stairs by feeling his way along the wall.

The big house was vaguely creepy in the dark, and Dean wondered how eight-year-old Sam had coped on his own in the big room upstairs. But then again, he thought, when you were brought up to believe in monsters and you had the added benefit of living with Jim Miller, there probably wasn't much a big empty house could do to frighten you.

The kitchen light was still on as he approached it and Dean stepped inside to see Stephen still seated in his chair, the laptop open and glowing in front of him. He looked up at Dean's arrival with a frown.

"I was wondering if you were going to get around to our chat tonight." He indicated to the chair beside him. "Sit. Would you like some more coffee?"

Dean shook his head. "No thanks. Just tell me what it is you think Sam can't handle knowing."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review, I like to know you guys are enjoying this, so please keep it up :) Hope you guys like this chapter, I tried not to end on too much of a cliffie for once! The next update will be on Monday…

Chapter 12

Stephen sat beside Dean at the big kitchen table, tapping on his laptop as if he had all the time in the world. Dean drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop, trying to convey his impatience. Sam was all alone upstairs and he didn't want the kid waking up and finding him gone. Sam should never have to feel alone again.

"You sure you don't want coffee?" Stephen's voice cut through the quiet. Dean looked up to see the old man watching him inquisitively.

"No thanks."

"Okay. Hope you don't mind if I make myself a pot. I shouldn't really be drinking it at night, y'know, old men like me can't handle it like we used to." He shook his head in momentary regret as he gathered his crutches to him. Dean couldn't help the irritated sigh that escaped him. He didn't come downstairs in the middle of the night for small talk.

Stephen seemed to be moving about the kitchen slower than he had all evening. He took his time in rinsing out the coffee pot, putting it on to boil. Checked the mug thoroughly for any dirt or stains that might have evaded the earlier wash, even though Dean knew that the man had been meticulous about scrubbing everything clean. He sighed again, louder, ignoring Stephen's pointed frown.

"Calm down, the story ain't going anywhere. Just let me get my coffee." Dean huffed quietly to himself. The old man waited until the coffee boiled and poured himself a cup, his hand shaking slightly as he stirred in sugar. He opened the refrigerator, started to pull out the milk carton, before shaking his head slightly and closing it again without removing the milk.

It occurred to Dean that maybe Stephen was nervous about sharing whatever it was he had to say, putting off the actual telling for as long as possible.

Finally rejoining Dean at the table, he carefully placed the steaming coffee mug on the surface and arranged his crutches beside him. Dean watched his face intently, but his features remained purposely blank.

"The thing is," Stephen said suddenly, startling Dean, "what I'm about to tell you, it scares me a little. Jim told me, almost a year after our first meeting. We'd only met a few times since then, didn't really know each other well enough to share intimate details, but I get the impression he needed to talk about it with someone, anyone. He…wasn't well liked, Jim. Respected, yes. Nearly every hunter he came into contact with said they'd trust him with their life. But after the hunt was over, they didn't want to stick around, shoot the shit. I think a lot of that was down to the way he treated that boy."

Dean nodded, not wanting to speak and break the man out of his story now he'd finally begun telling it.

"But you have to understand, Jim, he was…conflicted. And Sam was the cause of that confliction. On one hand, the boy was his son, his wife's child. He was all Jim had left of her. But…" Stephen took a heavy breath, his hand gripping the coffee mug like a claw.

"Jim was determined to find that demon. He left Sam with his mother-in-law at first, as I said. He wanted the boy to grow up normally, have a good life. He wanted to raise the boy himself, but his need for vengeance was too strong. So he did the next best thing. He planned on visiting, stopping by every few months so the boy grew up knowing his father."

Dean frowned. That didn't sound at all like the Jim Miller he'd met. It sounded almost like his own father. John had wanted what was best for Dean as well, Dean knew he had, and knew despite everything that he'd tried to provide it as well as he could.

But the Jim that Dean had met and heard about from Sam was a sadistic bastard, a man who cared nothing for his only son and had taken pleasure in torturing him. He said as much to Stephen, watching the old man's bitter smile.

"Yes, the man that Jim has become over the years is completely different to the man he was back then. Or so I've pieced together. I didn't know him back then, so I couldn't say for sure. Sadistic bastard would be a good way to describe him now, though."

"So what happened? What changed?" Dean asked.

Stephen raised the coffee mug to his lips, taking a long drink regardless of the hot steam still rising from the liquid. He placed it carefully back on the tabletop with a sigh.

"He didn't even take part in hunting when I met him. He made Sam do all the work and spent most of his time drunk, from what I've heard." Dean pressed when Stephen didn't say anything.

"Yes, well, this life, it wears you down. I'm not making excuses for him, mind. It never sat right with me, how he treated Sam. But it wasn't my place to say, wasn't my right to speak out against a father and how he chose to raise his child." Dean opened his mouth, about to protest. How could Stephen allow Sam to be treated that way, how could he sit by and not say anything, out of _politeness_, of all things? But Stephen raised a hand as if he knew what Dean was about to say. "In my day, that's the way things were, and call me a coward or whatever you please, but that's how I was taught. And I guess old habits die hard, even in the face of..." He coughed and shook his head.

"But that's not what I asked you here to discuss." Stephen took a heavy breath and lowered his eyes.

Dean nodded, urging the other man on wordlessly.

"Back when Sam was a baby Jim was all fire and poison, out to get anything that stood in his way. But, when you dig into something like Jim did, investigating every avenue until you find some answers, sometimes you turn up things you'd be better off not knowing." Stephen looked up at Dean then, a dark gleam in his eye. "I bet your father could tell you the same thing."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, thoroughly confused. He wished Stephen would just get to the point instead of talking around it, poking and hinting from all angles.

"I mean," Stephen paused, pressing his eyes closed like it physically hurt him to say it, "that Jim Miller found out something that changed everything."

Dean blinked at the statement, his eyes darting unconsciously to the open door way of the kitchen. Sam was upstairs, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place below him, the conversation that apparently had some terrible meaning for him. The darkened kitchen windows seemed to press in on him like a blanket, choking off the air supply. "What did he find out?" Dean half-whispered, suddenly not sure if he really wanted to know.

Stephen looked at him for a long moment before speaking bluntly and boldly. "He found out that Sam was conceived by the demon."

* * *

Sam woke suddenly, so clearheaded that he didn't need to blink to orient himself in the darkness of the room. Dean wasn't there, he knew instantly; wasn't with him in the room or taking care of business in the bathroom. He was alone in the dark and while it didn't scare him like it had when he was younger, he still felt threatened on some instinctive level.

His head ached dully and he felt a flash of biting terror that another vision might be on the way. Blinking hard and telling himself to calm down didn't help much, and he stepped silently out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. He felt strangely reluctant to turn on the light, so he washed his hands and face in the blank powdered illumination of the moon, drifting in through the tall windows.

His dream-knife appeared in his head, abrupt and with no preamble, like a shot to the heart. The image of it was so vivid and lifelike that he actually staggered back two steps before catching himself with a hand on the side of the enormous bathtub.

It had been a warning, he thought distantly, a warning that he could inflict pain on anyone, even himself. The knife was a part of him, a nasty and venomous part that could infect everyone around him.

Sam shook his head to try and clear the thoughts, going back to the sink and splashing handfuls of cold water over his face. It felt good, biting and fresh and _real_, allowing him to centre his unstable thoughts.

He wanted Dean. The other man would smile and tell him he was being stupid, that he couldn't hurt anyone because Dean _knew _him. Dean would hug him, kiss his hair, rub his back. Sam blinked away tears pricking at his eyes and walked out of the bathroom.

* * *

"What?" Dean could barely force the word out. His tongue felt numb, thick in his mouth. Stephen just continued looking at him steadily, his face appearing more tightly creased than it had just a second ago.

Dean's fingers itched for something to hold; a gun, or a knife, a mug of coffee. Something he could squeeze in one hand until his knuckles whitened, just to reassure himself it was real.

But the whole situation, the entire ludicrous story that sounded like a dark fairy tale, it was _all _real. How would he face Sam now?

"H-how? I mean…how?" He stuttered over his words.

Stephen sighed heavily, the explosion of air brushing the petals of the yellow tulips sitting in the vase on the table. Dean watched the flowers ripple in the water-filled glass, thinking abstractly how inappropriate such a bright and cheerful display was for the current conversation.

"Jim asked around." Stephen said gruffly. "He talked to some people, people who'd dealt with this kind of thing before. One of them was your own father, I believe. This was back when it had just begun, mind, back when Sam was a baby. They all told him similar stories, either first-hand accounts or things they'd heard from others. It seems this particular demon is after children. It wants them, for some purpose no one has figured out yet. I suspect we won't know what it's ultimate plan is until it happens. But the children, it intends them to be a part of it. So, it…planted something of itself in them."

Dean blinked furiously, trying to focus his thoughts, force them into intelligent questions. "So…what does that mean? What did it actually _do_?"

Stephen picked up his coffee and took another sip, staring into the mug as if he was meditating on it the dark liquid inside. "It possessed Jim Miller. And it used his body to conceive a child. Sam."

"But…that would still make Sam _Jim's _son. I mean, from what I've heard, demons possessing people, they don't change anything about the physical body. They just…take it over." Dean said, his mind tumbling over itself in his haste to deny the whole event.

Stephen looked up abruptly, thumping the coffee mug on the tabletop with a loud bang. He smiled slowly, nodding as if Dean had confirmed something. "Yes, that's exactly what I told Jim when he came to me with his story. After I'd had some time to think it through, of course. And you're right. The demon used Jim to create a human child – Sam is one hundred per cent human – but it found a way to leave something inside Sam, something that makes him…"

"Psychic?" Dean asked, the word slipping out from between his lips like a secret. Stephen looked at him in surprise that soon faded into weary acceptance. He nodded.

"Yes."

Dean took a deep breath, holding it until his head started to spin. The yellow tulips in front of him blurred before his unfocused eyes, becoming yellow smudges floating on a green-tinged mist.

"I think I'd like some of that coffee now." He said hoarsely. Stephen chuckled, nodding and pushing his own mug toward Dean.

"Make me another cup while you're there. And make it black. Somehow I don't think sleep will come to me tonight, whether I drink the stuff or not."

* * *

Dean poured coffee, stirring in sugar and rinsing the spoon under the hot water faucet. He could see his reflection in the black glass of the window. Even the vague shade of himself looked haunted. His entire body felt cold and disoriented, as if he was standing in the middle of a snow-storm and couldn't tell which way was up.

Sam was…

He pushed the thought away before it could fully form. Sam was _Sam_, the same lanky fluffy-haired puppy-dog of a kid he'd always been. He hadn't changed. Having the conversation hadn't made him into a demonic killer.

Dean bit his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. But what if he _did _change? What if the demon had _put _something in him, something that would make him become someone else whether he wanted to or not? How could Dean look at him now, treat him the same way?

He walked back to the table, coffee mugs in hand. Stephen seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, staring at the hardwood tabletop as if it had all the answers.

"Here." Dean said, wincing at the sound of his voice in the dry silence.

"Thanks." Stephen picked up the mug and drained half of it in one gulp, despite the freshly boiled heat. Dean took his own long drink, almost relishing the scald on his tongue and throat.

"Jim couldn't accept that Sam was his son." Stephen said suddenly, making Dean look up from his coffee. Now that he'd started talking, it didn't seem like Stephen would stop until everything was out. "No matter how he looked at it, or what anyone said, he still saw Sam as the demon's child. He couldn't…he couldn't bring himself to…to _kill_ Sam. The boy was his wife's child if nothing else, he couldn't lie to himself about that. But he couldn't stand to see him, either. Every time he looked at the boy, all he could see was that demon, taunting him. He was going to leave him, abandon him with his mother-in-law, but then a few months after his discovery, he got a phone call to say she'd died."

Dean blinked, hating himself for the tiny drop of sympathy he was feeling for Sam's father. The man was disgusting, he told himself. But, maybe, he could see how the circumstances might come to this.

"Jim decided to take the boy with him, train him as a hunter. I'm not sure exactly what he was thinking. I don't think even he fully understood his motives behind it. Maybe he wanted to try and make sure the boy grew up strong, grew up _right_. Or maybe he just wanted something of the demon to punish." Stephen sighed, his voice cracking like he'd been talking for hours. "And so the drinking started, and the abuse. He sent the boy away to others, people like me, ostensibly for his training, but truthfully because he couldn't stand to see him – a reminder of what he'd lost and a reminder of the thing that did it, all in one."

Dean's fingers were white around his coffee mug, the hot china burning his palms. He couldn't loosen his grip.

He thought maybe he was crying, could feel coolness on his cheeks and under his eyes. For who, he wasn't too sure. For Jim Miller and his wretched soul, for his dead wife, who made sure Sam was kept at Jim's side by being a part of him, or for Sam himself, whose only sin was his existence in the world.

Would he see Sam differently now, Dean wondered. Would he look in soft green eyes, checking for a hint of yellow before he could stop himself? Could he go upstairs, get into bed with Sam, hold him close and not wonder if maybe, possibly, tomorrow might be the day he wakes up and finds something deadly in his arms?

He took another long drink of coffee and sat, staring at the stupidly colourful flowers in front of him. Beside him, Stephen did the same.

* * *

Sam backed away from the kitchen door, his bare feet padding softly on the thick carpeted floor. His entire body was wracked with uncontrollable shivers and he could taste the foul tang of metal on the back of his tongue. The still air was cool against his skin, the thin tee shirt and boxers doing nothing to warm him. He felt like he'd never be warm again.

His legs carried him away, back to the main hall. He didn't realise he'd started to run until he felt the whip of air on his face, running invisible fingers through his hair.

Sam wasn't sure where exactly he was going _to_, where he would find himself when he stopped. He just knew he had to keep going, keep running, faster and faster and then maybe it wouldn't catch up with him.

He paused as he reached the main door. Stephen would have locked it, what remained of his logic told him. Another way out, then.

The study room was a place Sam had been in a handful of times. Filled with computers and equipment and enormous electricity generators, it powered the entire house independently. It was a square room, big heavy wooden surfaces set in every wall holding all Stephen's equipment. In the centre was a cushioned leather office chair on wheels. Stephen used it to move from monitor to monitor to save him balancing himself on his crutches every time he wanted to check one. Sam hardly slowed his pace as he entered the room, catching the chair and wheeling it toward the big window leading to the front garden. The top pane of glass was always left open to keep the room cool and the air circulating.

Sam stepped on the seat of the chair, boosting himself through the window. The forward momentum rolled him out and he landed on the gravel pathway, scraping bloody gouges in his knees and lower legs. He ignored the sting, pushing himself up and running blindly into the dark garden.

_

* * *

There are only so many times you can wash up two mugs, Dean thought to himself, dragging his feet on the hallway carpet, __before you have to admit you're stalling_. And he had been. A part of him hadn't wanted to leave the safety of the kitchen, to be alone with his thoughts. Alone with Sam., Dean thought to himself, dragging his feet on the hallway carpet, . And he had been. A part of him hadn't wanted to leave the safety of the kitchen, to be alone with his thoughts. Alone with Sam. 

Was he afraid of Sam?

Dean shook his head, trying to dispel the unwelcome thoughts. Of course he wasn't afraid of Sam. Sam would never hurt him, Sam didn't have it in him to hurt _anyone_, let alone Dean.

So why was he dragging his feet, stopping to look at paintings he could hardly see in the dark unlit hallway?

He couldn't lie to Sam. And even if he could, the kid knew him well enough to tell when something was wrong. Sam would know, and Sam would ask questions. Because he was Sam, the same person he'd always been.

Dean bit his lip hard. He _knew _Sam. Knew him better than anyone else. And whether there was something that made him…different, or not, he was still the same person that Dean had spent the last six months with. Had kissed, had stroked and caressed and secretly adored. The same kid that walked into his classroom a lifetime ago, smiling his sweet smile. The same kid Dean had given up everything to help, and he'd never once regretted doing it. Never once thought he could ever do anything differently.

The stairs seemed steeper walking up this time, as if they'd doubled in size while he'd been talking to Stephen. He walked up them, staring at his feet as each one took the step in front of the other, again and again.

The windows spotted along the hallway at the top of the stairs were beginning to lighten, a soft peach glow floating on the air that he could almost reach out and touch. Dean had no idea how long he'd spent in the kitchen after Stephen finished his story, the two of them just sitting blankly, unmoving like stone statues. He hoped Sam hadn't woken up in the night and found him gone. Against his will, his mind started buzzing. What would happen if he had? If Sam had woken up all alone, found Dean gone. Would he be angry? Would he be angry enough to…

Dean stopped dead, pressing forefinger and thumb into his closed eyes hard enough to see electric-white sparks behind his eyelids. He could barely stop his fingers from digging in, harder, deeper, as if that way he could somehow remove the fearful part of his brain that was whispering all these traitorous doubts. He started walking again, approaching the room like it was a caged tiger.

An image of Sam slipped into his head, the scene from earlier in the night replaying. Sam smiling from across the bed, asking which side he wanted. Sam curling up into Dean in his sleep, snuffling at his neck. Sam, waking up panting and sweating, the first thought in his mind to reach for Dean.

Dean opened the door, stepping into the room without hesitating.

Except Sam wasn't anywhere to be seen.

* * *

Running hadn't helped. Sam had stumbled blindly and madly through trees, bushes, undergrowth, tripping over stones and long grass for what seemed like long hours and milliseconds all at once, until he reached a fence. The fence separated him from a field, a long stretch of mown green that looked milky pale in the moonlight. He stopped then, practically falling into the wooden slats and catching himself with both hands. Splinters biting into his palms were distantly noted and then pushed aside like the cuts and grazes lining his bare skin.

He wanted to keep going. To vault the fence and keep sprinting for the far horizon, where maybe he'd find…

Maybe he'd find what? That it wasn't true, that someone had made it up? Or that it just didn't matter anymore?

Only then did Sam realise the mess his midnight run had made of his body.

Leaves caught in his hair and clothes, warm blood tracing lines down his shins and pooling between his bare toes. And the hot tears blurring his vision. A stinging scrape followed the line of his jaw, and he thought maybe he'd fallen somewhere back in the dark wood, or maybe a low branch had caught him across the face. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered, because his dream had come true in the worst way imaginable. There was something evil inside of him. And everyone _knew_, everyone had known except him.

Sam dropped his head, slumping limply against the fence. He could keep running, run for the rest of his life, until his body gave out and he collapsed and died. And no one would be there to pick him up. Dean couldn't save him, but he couldn't hurt Dean either.

The wind blew through the trees, making a hollow whistling that seemed to chase his path, catching up to him and making him shiver all over. Sam looked around him at the indifferent night and wondered how it would feel to be truly unwanted. To have no one in the world to turn to.

It would be the best thing he could do, he thought. Dean would be upset, but also, secretly, just a little relieved. The other man would be free of his responsibility. He wouldn't have to face Sam and wonder. Because he _would _wonder, Sam had no illusions about that. He'd do his best to hide it, to act like everything was normal, but in the back of his mind would always be a tiny voice telling him to be cautious, be careful. Every time he handed Sam a gun, every time he saw Sam cleaning a knife, there'd be a split second hesitation where Dean would think _today's the day_.

And how would Sam ever trust himself? How could he ever pick up a weapon and trust that something in him won't make him aim it at Dean, or John or Caleb or Stephen?

A breathless sob caught in his throat, wrenching free with a force that almost threw Sam to the ground. His fingers tightened on the fence post, gripping hard enough to hurt.

He _should_ leave, but he couldn't. He was too much of a coward, too selfish. He wanted to stay, wanted Dean to love him too much to leave.

So Sam pulled himself upright, onto unsteady legs shaky with the sudden burst of physical exertion. His hand unwound from the fence, tiny spasms making it twitch uncontrollably as he loosened his chokehold. He turned away from the field and it's promise of oblivion and started the walk that would take him back to the house.

* * *

Dean's breath caught in his throat and he scanned the room again, hoping that Sam would spring out from one of the shadowed corners, watching Dean's panicked behaviour with cocked head and a crooked smile. But Sam wasn't there.

He spun around fast, intent on finding Stephen.

Only to see the kid standing in the doorway behind him. He was allowed a second of relief before he noticed the state Sam was in.

Sam was panting like he'd just run a marathon, his bare legs and feet ripped and trailing rivulets of blood like ornate patterns on his skin. His clothes and body were streaked with dirt and half-dried mud, his hair a tangled mess covering half his face. A red stripe painted his jaw where he'd grazed the top layer of skin. Dean couldn't see his eyes through the dark and sweaty bangs.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't reply. The kid stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each laboured breath. Dean took a tentative step toward him and immediately Sam took one back like a skittish colt on wobbly legs.

"Sam…what's wrong?" He asked, trying to keep his voice level. Sam flinched at the sound as if Dean had hit him, and then he knew.

"Sam…oh god."

Dean threw out a hand instinctively and Sam practically leapt backward, out of reach.

"Sam, Sammy, it's okay, it's gonna be okay, I promise, please listen…" He babbled, hardly paying attention to what came out of his mouth. Sam started shaking his head, tiny jerky movements that tossed his hair from side to side. Dean caught flashes of his eyes underneath, saw the terrified redness, the wide unblinking stretch. His lips were pinched together in a bloodless slit, twisted up at one corner in a parody of a smile.

Suddenly Sam's hand flew to his head, connecting with an audible clap. The other hand followed, his fingers drilling into his temples. He made a low keening noise, head falling forward to stare at the ground. Dean stepped quickly over to him, reaching out with both arms to restrain him if he tried to run or fight his way free.

What he didn't expect was Sam's entire body turning to dead weight as soon as his arms wrapped around the kid. His head fell forward onto Dean's shoulder and he groaned like he was in agony, his legs giving out. Dean sank to the floor, holding him tightly against his chest.

Dean had no idea what was going on, whether Sam was having some kind of breakdown or fainting spell, or if he was just trying to deal with what he'd found out. What he shouldn't have had to _overhear_.

God, what the hell had he done?

He cradled the kid close, one hand snaking up to cup the back of his neck when Sam started shaking his head again, involuntary twitches running though his limbs.

"Sammy? Sammy, talk to me, please. What's wrong? Talk to me!" Dean said, his words increasing in volume.

Suddenly all the tension drained from Sam's body, his limbs going lax in Dean's arms. He lay there for a long moment, minute tremors still running along his muscles at irregular intervals as if he was flinching at invisible threats.

Finally Sam lifted his head, and Dean got a good look at his eyes, shadowed and red like his pain had been burnt into his sight.

Dean thought he might be crying again.

"Sammy…"

"I had a vision. That was a vision." Sam interrupted in a cracked whisper.

Dean blinked, his eyes going wide and his mouth falling open. He tried to speak, tried to say something reassuring, anything, but the only thing that would come out was a tiny breathy "…oh."


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review, I really appreciate your comments so keep 'em coming, even if it's only a couple of words! The next update will be on Saturday…

Chapter 13

Sam carefully lowered himself to the floor beside the bathtub, leaning his head back until it touched the cool porcelain. He wanted something cold to press against his aching forehead, the remnants from the vision still echoing around in his ears. Was this the demon's plan all along? To torture Sam with these scenes, to make him watch over and over and over again, until one day perhaps he'd feel a faint whisper of pleasure at someone else's pain?

Sam felt the bile rise in his stomach and threw himself across the room. He made it to the toilet just in time to see his partially-digested dinner reappear. His hands scrabbled at the sides of the bowl, leaving red finger-smudges of blood behind.

His stomach heaved again, contracting in time with the vice-like headache. He wished he'd turned the water on to muffle the sounds.

"Sammy?" Dean knocked on the bathroom door, opening it without waiting for a reply. Sam saw him out of the corner of his eye, the bag of medical supplies dropping to the floor as he took in the picture of Sam hunched over the toilet.

A second later a hand was on his back, rubbing gently. Dean's breath was warm on the side of his neck. "Oh god, Sammy, it's gonna be okay, I promise. Shhh, it's okay."

Sam wanted to scream _how the hell can you say that, how can you lie to me like that_, but the words were stuck somewhere in his chest and all that escaped was a gasping sob.

Sam's face was smeared with blood and tears and dirt, stringy saliva and vomit clinging to his lips and clear mucus running from his nose. His hair was matted and sweaty, leaves caught in the tangles. Dean's heart felt like it was ripping in two at the sight of him.

He kissed Sam anyway, pressing his lips to the corner of the kid's mouth tenderly. Sam didn't seem to notice, his eyes glassy and wide.

"Don't worry, Sammy. I'm gonna take care of you, I promise I'll take care of you." Dean started to run a bath, his body moving on autopilot as his mind raced ahead. Sam remained on the floor, his hands pressed to the bowl of the toilet as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

Dean busied himself with the bath; making sure the water wasn't too hot, finding washcloths and towels, considering whether or not to add some of the expensive-looking bath salts. Maybe Sam would prefer bubbles? He took his time pondering the little rack containing different products before finally deciding to leave them out altogether. Sam was wearing half the garden; it would take more than a few bubbles to shift that mess. Better to use a bar of soap and a washcloth.

The medical supply bag lay on the floor where he'd dropped it, so Dean picked it up and began to sort through the things that he would need. He lined bandages, gauze, band-aids and antiseptic up along the marble counter, adding the surgical needle and thread after a second's consideration. Sam probably wasn't cut up too bad, but over preparing never hurt anyone.

Sam would want clothes when he was clean and bandaged. The tee shirt and boxers he was wearing were wrecked, in need of a good wash. Actually, Dean thought, he could probably just throw them out. Sam had enough clothes, and Dean didn't want to see those particular reminders ever again after this night was over. But Sam would need fresh clothes. Dean marched toward the door.

"Dean?" Sam's scratchy voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm just gonna get you some clean clothes. I won't be a sec." He didn't wait for a reply, didn't look in Sam's direction, just continued toward the door.

"Dean, my vision…"

"It can wait, Sammy, let me take care of you first."

"It _can't_, Dean, we need…we need to…" Sam trailed off, his voice failing him.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, seeing white echoes of the room on the back of his eyelids.

"_Please._"

The plea, spoken so softly Dean almost didn't catch it, was what broke him. He turned to crouch in front of Sam, one hand raising involuntarily before he thought maybe Sam didn't want to be touched and lowered it again.

"Okay. Tell me what happened."

Sam looked up at him with messy eyes. Emotions flitted across his face, too fast for Dean to distinguish between them. Finally Sam took a deep breath. "I-I saw a man. A priest, I think, he was wearing a dog collar and standing in…in a dark room." Sam opened his mouth, hesitated, tried again. Dean felt something in his chest pull painfully. "Another guy came in. His eyes…his eyes were black. He-he slit the priest's throat."

Dean did reach for Sam at that, pulled the kid roughly forward and into his arms as if he could hold him close enough to absorb his pain. Sam put up a pitiful resistance before his face fell forward into Dean's neck. Dean could feel the damp of tears at his throat and he wanted to cry again.

_Just take care of this_, his mind told him firmly. _Break down later, but now you have to be strong for Sam and take care of this_.

* * *

The sound of pounding water as the bath filled was simultaneously aggravating and soothing to Sam's head. The noise irritated his post-vision headache, but it also gave him something to focus on, something extraneous that didn't need analysing or angsting over.

The heat of the water clouded the room in big wafts of steam, condensation forming on the porcelain toilet bowl still beneath Sam's fingertips, even though his stomach had finished emptying itself a few minutes ago. He couldn't seem to move.

Dean had left the room, Sam knew. Seconds ago or hours, he couldn't remember, but the low tone of Dean's voice had carried through the closed door at one point and Sam hoped the other man had called John and Caleb. Hoped _someone _was trying to help that priest.

It was supposed to be _his _job to do. His visions, his responsibility.

Dean stepped back into the room, carrying Sam's sweatpants and a long-sleeve tee over one arm. He flashed a big plastic grin in Sam's direction, hurrying over to check on the bath.

Sam blinked. His eyes didn't seem to want to focus properly, everything fuzzy around the edges like a badly developed photo. He blinked again. It didn't help.

Dean was suddenly kneeling in front of him, his arms reaching for Sam. Sam flinched away before he could help himself and Dean pretended not to notice. The other man was speaking, his mouth moving and sound coming out, but all Sam could make out was a low hum.

Dean's hands were on his arms, manhandling him to his feet. Sam allowed himself to be positioned, bemusedly watching Dean's face as the older man frowned in concentration. Apparently he was attempting to rid Sam of his dirty clothes and Sam wanted to help, he really did, but it was like his limbs were made of stone, unmoveable.

Something in that thought resonated in him and he felt the beginnings of panic itching their way along his nerves. His body was supposed to belong to_ him_, he was supposed to have _control_.

And then time disappeared on him and he found himself stepping out of the bathtub, naked and dripping wet. Dean was steadying him with one hand on his shoulder, the other guiding him gently into the big fleecy towel that appeared from nowhere. It felt soft and very warm, like being cocooned in clouds. Dean's arms were around him, rubbing briskly at his body through the towel to dry him off. Sam let himself flop forward bonelessly, his head suddenly tired of being balanced upright on his neck. Dean hesitated a second and then carefully hugged him, stroking a light hand through his bangs.

"C'mon Sammy, we need to patch you up." Sam heard the words, nodded in acquiescence, but then his eyes were sliding shut and everything was black as night.

Dean cleaned and dressed Sam's wounds while he was unconscious on the bathroom floor. They weren't as bad as they'd seemed; none required stitches. His knees were the worst, pieces of gravel embedded in the skin, and Dean winced while he used surgical tweezers to dig each tiny chip of rock out. Once that was taken care of, he wrangled Sam into the sweatpants and carried him bridal-style to the bed. The kid didn't twitch, deep in sleep, but Dean caught the tiny frown that creased his forehead as he laid him on top of the covers. He rubbed a fingertip over the lines, watching as they smoothed at his touch.

He spent a few minutes watching the sleeping form, reassuring himself at each steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. They would be okay, he told himself, they could get through this.

* * *

Dean didn't mean to fall asleep, didn't think he _could _after the revelations of the night, but his eyes cracked open and the big antique clock hanging on the wall opposite has skipped three hours. The spot beside him was empty and he had a momentary panic attack that Sam had run away again, but then the bedroom door opens and the kid appeared fully dressed and carrying two mugs of steaming coffee.

"Here." He said, lowering himself to the bed and handing a mug over. Dean took it mechanically and frowned, cocking his head in Sam's direction. The kid was wearing clean jeans and a dark button-down, sneakers on his feet and his bag packed in the corner. He looked exactly the opposite of what Dean was expecting. He looked normal, fine, as if it was any other day. The only thing that hinted at the difference was the dark circles under his eyes.

"Are you…" Dean began. Sam didn't give him a chance to finish.

"That priest in my vision; we need to help him." Dean looked at Sam in disbelief, but the kid just stared him down, his face revealing nothing.

"I called my dad, he'll take care of it." The words came out sharper that Dean intended and he didn't miss the tiny twitch of Sam's set shoulders. The tiny sign of weakness. Then Sam blinked and it was like it never happened.

"We should help."

"Sammy…don't you think we should deal with…"

"We can deal with it later. This hunt won't wait, Dean. I had a _vision_." Sam said, as if it _meant _something.

Dean sighed heavily, screwing his eyes shut and rubbing a hand in his unwashed hair. When he opened his eyes again he was met with Sam's imploring gaze.

"We have to do this, Dean."

Dean clenched his hands into fists, feeling the nails bite into his palms. "Okay Sammy. Okay."

"Well, you boys stay in touch now. Drop by if you're in the neighbourhood." Stephen punctuated his words with a slap on Sam's shoulder. Sam pasted on a fake smile for the old man.

"We will sir." Dean answered for them.

Stephen waved as the Impala pulled away. Sam watched him in the rearview mirror, the sheer size of the house making him look tiny in comparison. He never wanted to see that house again.

"What did you tell your dad?" He asked as they reached the end of the dirt lane. Dean glanced over, his mouth tight.

"I, uh, said those psychic powers had suddenly developed last night. You'd had a vision of some guy being attacked by a demon."

"Did he believe you?"

"He's gonna look into it."

Sam could tell Dean didn't really want to be here, hunting. Could tell the other man was humouring him, treating him like he was mentally incapable. Maybe he was right to. But Sam had received the vision for a reason, and if that reason was to make him…turn, become the true son of the demon, then he was going to do everything he could to stop it from happening. And that meant saving that priest.

Dean was driving more cautiously than usual, taking his eyes from the road to glance over at Sam every few minutes. Sam pretended not to notice.

"D'you wanna get some lunch before we get going?" Dean said, breaking the silence between them.

"No."

"Are you sure, there's a drive-thru coming up…"

"I'm fine Dean. Stop if you want something, I'm not hungry." Sam turned his head to the passenger window, pressing his forehead against the glass and watching the continuous line chasing along the side of the road. He could remember doing the same thing in his father's Cadillac when they were driving from job to job, back when he was too young to do much more than accompany Jim and stay out of the way. He thought of all those long-ago fantasies where Jim loved him. The very idea of them made him feel nauseous, although he wasn't exactly sure why. It seemed almost blasphemous now, so far removed from reality that the concept was ungraspable.

Dean looked over at Sam again. The kid was slouched in his seat, pressing himself against the passenger door like he was considering throwing himself through it.

Dean felt like this was his own personal version of hell. Stuck in a car for the next few hours with a sullen Sam, _knowing _he needed to start a serious conversation but putting it off because he was too scared to face the issues between them. It made him uncomfortable in his own skin, something he'd never felt around Sam before.

Sam hadn't even asked where they were headed.

Dean had vague ideas of meeting up with his father, half of him convinced John would know what to do, the other half just as sure that John would have Sam condemned in his mind now he knew about the psychic powers. Now the demon in Sam was confirmed. He'd called John in a daze last night, his head spinning and overwhelmed and the only thought in his head was _dad can fix it_. Except John had been less than forthcoming with advice, his voice guarded while Dean's was clearly advertising his imminent mental breakdown. He wasn't sure John had believed him about Sam's vision.

Dean coughed, trying to get Sam's attention. The kid ignored him. He sighed heavily and gave up, hating himself for the relief of putting off a discussion. Instead he slapped a tape into the tape deck and turned it up to drown out his thoughts.

* * *

Sam perched on the hood of the Impala, waiting for Dean to return from the cheap diner with the lunch he'd insisted on. The day was clear and already Sam could tell it was going to be hot. And sunny. The complete opposite of his mood. He held the local paper in his hands, more for something to do with his hands that out of any interest in the news. After looking it over for five minutes and not taking in a word, he finally folded it violently and pitched it toward the litter bin on the sidewalk, hissing when all he gained was a paper cut for his troubles. His black mood wasn't improved when he saw Dean through the glass windows of the diner, chatting up a brunette woman with a serving apron around her waist.

Dean had always flirted with the women they met. In diners, cafes, gas stations. Once he remembered a female cop pulling them over for driving at seventy in a forty mile-an-hour zone just outside South Dakota. Dean had actually pulled the whole 'problem, officer?' routine, complete with fluttering eyelashes and pouty lips. Sam had watched in disbelief when the woman blushed and let them off with a warning.

But Sam was the one Dean went home with, every single night. Except now, maybe Dean should be thinking about taking one of those girls home instead. Someone who wasn't demon-infested.

"Hey. Got you coffee and a bagel." Dean said as he stepped outside, disrupting Sam's thoughts. "You okay?"

Sam smiled, the first almost-genuine smile he'd pressed onto his face since he'd found out. It hurt the corners of his mouth, but he forced it out anyway, for Dean. "I'm okay."

He couldn't let Dean go, not yet.

* * *

"Dad, we're gonna come and meet you, where are you guys?" Dean put on a bright voice for Sam's benefit. Not that the kid cared, seemingly very invested in picking the fillings out of his bagel. Dean winced as a tomato slice landed with a plop on the leather seat of the Impala. Sam flicked it out the window, leaving a smear of mayonnaise behind.

"_Dean, I'm not sure that's such a good idea."_ John sounded distant, distracted.

"What? Why not?"

"_Because Caleb and I, we're doing some research, sensitive stuff. Having you and Sam around might make a few people…uncomfortable."_

Dean frowned, glancing over at Sam and sliding out of the car. He tried to look casual, stepping around the car and leaning against the hood, his face upturned to the sun. "What about Sam's vision? I thought you were gonna look into it."

"_I am. But son, there's not much to go on. And how do you know it was an actual vision, and not some kind of hallucination?"_

Dean pressed his eyes closed. "Dad, trust me. Sam _saw_ this."

"_Okay. Well, how do you know this isn't some kind of trick? The demon could be using Sam to set a trap. I don't think it's a good idea to invest all our time in trying to find some priest that may not have anything to do with this. We have more important things to be focusing on here, Dean."_

"Fine. Can Sam and I meet up with you or not?"

"_Dean, look, I…"_

"Yeah. Thanks for your help, dad." Dean snapped his phone shut, his chest feeling strangely hollow. He slumped against the hood of the car, feeling the warm metal at the back of his thighs.

So. They were on their own. John didn't believe in Sam's vision, didn't want them around. And now Dean had to deal with it. He pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

_What if dad's right?_ The unwanted thought snuck in and set up house in the back of his mind. This was the first time Sam had told him about a vision. The first time Sam had _had _one and known it for what it was. But these visions must be coming from somewhere, from something. And the demon was the obvious choice. What if it _was_ a trap?

* * *

John's phone trilled rudely in the front pocket of his jacket. Caleb half-turned, eyeing him anxiously. The contact they were meeting was jumpy, and with good reason. A few months ago he'd been busted in a woman's apartment, holding a machete over the headless bodies of her and her boyfriend. The cops, surprisingly enough, hadn't believed him when he claimed they'd been vampires. He'd escaped arrest, but public places made him jittery.

"Sorry." John muttered, fishing the persistent phone out of his pocket. He thought it might be Dean, calling him back.

Telling his son to stay away after spending the past eight years wishing he would come back had been hard. But it was for the best, he reminded himself. Sam couldn't be here. The demon wanted the boy, wanted to keep track of him. If he was with John, he was an easy target.

"Hello?" He answered without checking the caller ID.

"_John?"_

John blinked. "Jim? That you?"

Pastor Jim Murphy let out a sound like the rasp of a rusty blade against metal. _"John, don't…don't give it to them. Don't…"_

"Jim! Jim, what…" Before John could say anything else, a new voice spoke.

"_Hello, John."_ The voice was male, creamy smooth and sounding amused. _"As you've probably guessed by now, Jim Murphy is dead. Now, we want the Colt, and we know you have it."_


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you as always to everyone who took the time to review, I really do appreciate your comments, so please keep it up! Next update should be on Thursday if all goes well…

Chapter 14

Dean booked them into a Motel 6 a few miles off the interstate. He didn't know what else to do, where else to go. Meeting up with John had been his goal ever since leaving Stephen's mansion, whether he consciously meant it to be or not. But now his father had shut that door with a brusque phone call, leaving Dean truly alone. It cut deep, that casual dismissal. Despite everything, despite the harsh words and the years of estrangement, Dean had never once thought John Winchester wouldn't drop everything to come to his son's aid. _Maybe I didn't make it clear enough, maybe I should have told him how confused everything is_, he thought to himself. _Maybe I should call him again. He'd know what to do, he'd tell me how to look after Sam. _Because John _always _knew what to do. John Winchester was in charge, John Winchester gave orders and made plans and never ever got as lost as Dean was right now.

Sam was lying on one of the single beds in the same position he'd assumed on entering the room late last night. His eyes were fixed on the TV, playing the same infomercial over and over. He hadn't looked up once, not even when Dean began pacing the length of the room.

"Sam?" Dean asked hesitantly. Sam blinked but otherwise didn't react. "Sammy, you hungry? We could go out for some breakfast?"

Finally Sam disconnected from the TV and looked up, seemingly surprised to find Dean watching him. "Huh? Did you say something?"

"Yeah, I asked if you wanted some breakfast."

"Oh. No thanks." And that was that. Sam was back to staring at the TV as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Dean sighed and ran a rough hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like the tiny pain would give him divine inspiration.

The sun was rising outside the room, the early golden rays shining directly onto Sam and his bed. It made his skin glow translucent and his hair stripe with brilliant highlights. Dean stopped pacing and looked at him. It was as if he'd been transfigured into glass that was lit from within; too hard a touch and he would shatter into slivers too small to be put back together again. Dean pressed his eyes shut and turned away.

"I'm gonna get myself some food. I'll pick you up something in case you get hungry." Dean said, picking up his wallet and cell phone and striding to the door. "I'll be back in five. Stay here." He winced at his curt tone, but Sam didn't seem to notice.

As soon as Dean stepped outside the door, Sam let out a heavy breath, his body sagging into the mattress. Dean's constant wary attention was exhausting and Sam didn't know how he was supposed to handle it. His neck and back ached, the stiff vertebrae of his spine popping and clicking as he stretched.

He couldn't act like everything was okay. Everything was about as far from okay as it could get. But he wasn't about to let himself give in to the despair like Dean seemed to think he would. The weight of having these visions and of finding out about what the demon had done to him was yet another thing for him to shoulder. And Sam hated it, hated knowing what he was and what he had to do. But he wasn't going to break under the burden. Dean had apparently forgotten how he had grown up. Or perhaps he never really understood it in the first place, and Sam wasn't keen on enlightening him with the finer points of his childhood torture. But if there was one thing to be grateful to Jim Miller for, it was for making sure Sam knew how to _survive_.

The newborn rays of the sun warmed his face, and Sam closed his eyes and basked in it like a cat. Outside the window was the same scummy parking lot, the same dusty old cars and dirty lines of motel rooms to be rented by the hour that Sam had grown up in. But the simple pleasure of the sun on his face made everything seem lighter, just for a second. Just enough for Sam to breathe.

* * *

Dean stood in front of the menu board in the town's local McDonald's, ostensibly trying to choose between the McChicken sandwich meal and the Big Mac meal. Except the typed words kept blurring in his eyes and all he could think about was his father's careless dismissal.

"Are you waiting in line?" He turned to see a pretty brunette girl, her hair twisted back in a plait and a nervous smile on her face.

"Uh, no, go ahead."

"Thanks." She made no move to leave. "God the service sucks in here. Usually I go to the diner across the street. The people there actually act like human beings."

Dean gave her a vague smile. "Uh huh. That's great."

Apparently not deterred by his distracted air, the girl reached out and stroked a soft hand along his forearm. "So, are you here with anyone?"

Dean blinked. _Did she just use a line on me? In the middle of _McDonald's"Actually, I'm seeing someone. In, like…a relationship kinda deal."

"Oh. Well, maybe I could give you my number…"

"Uh, look, I'm flattered, but I'm really not gonna call you." Her mouth twisted in a pout and she stood there for a second longer, as if she couldn't quite believe she was being turned down. Then she huffed air through her nose and stalked off with a flick of her plaited hair. Dean didn't even watch her ass as she left.

It suddenly occurred to him that he'd just referred to Sam as someone he was 'seeing', and it hadn't freaked him out at all. Despite everything going on, it made his chest feel warm.

* * *

Dean was halfway to the motel when his cell phone rang in his jacket pocket. Keeping one hand on the wheel of the Impala, he fished it out and answered, pressing it to one ear.

"Hello?"

"_Dean."_

"Dad." The warm feeling that had followed him from the McDonald's dissipated in a puff of air.

"_Dean, there's something I have to tell you."_ John sounded unbearably tired, as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

"So talk."

"_Pastor Jim is dead."_

The blunt statement was like running into a wall, and the car swerved under Dean's suddenly lax grip on the wheel. He thumped on the break pedal instinctively, jerking over to the side of the thankfully quiet street and bumping up the kerb before coming to a dead stop. "What? When? How?" The questions spilled off his tongue.

"_Last night. I…I didn't want to call you until I knew…"_

"Knew what?" Something scratched at the corner of his mind, a tiny flicker of recognition. "Dad, how did he die?"

It was a few seconds until John answered. _"He…his throat was cut. By a demon."_

Dean let out a slow breath. "Sam's vision."

"_Yes."_ An awkward pause. _"I'm sorry I didn't take it seriously."_

"Yeah." Dean didn't take any pleasure in proving John wrong. Not knowing Pastor Jim had suffered for it.

Sam's description of his vision, the scene with the priest and the demon and the dark room, none of it had registered with him. He hadn't once considered that it would feature someone he knew. The knowledge that none of them would have been able to reach Jim in time to stop it anyway was cold comfort.

"_Listen, Dean, I know I was…abrupt with you yesterday. I didn't mean to be. But the demon's watching me. It knows I'm after it and it knows that I'm getting close. Which means anyone with me is in danger."_

"Dad, I'm _always _in danger. It's part of the job description. I knew what I was getting into when I started this again. Let me help." Dean hated how quickly his resolve had broken, hated the pleading tone to his voice.

"_No son. It's too dangerous."_

"But…"

"_Not for you. For Sam." _Dean shut up at his father's words. _"Dean, you have to watch him. Look out for him."_

"Dad," Dean swallowed hard. "Did you know? About…Sam, about the children? How they were made?"

John was quiet. Dean watched a couple across the street walking hand in hand, maybe returning from a big night out, smiling and laughing at some private joke. In their own world where nothing bad could hurt them.

"_I knew."_

The couple crossed the street right in front of the Impala, not noticing Dean watching them from the front seat. For a split second he hated them, hated that they didn't have to spend their lives constantly _aware _and _alert_.

"Dad, why am I different?"

"_Dean," _John coughed, his voice wavering. On the other end of the line someone spoke, and John covered the mouthpiece before answering, the sounds muffled. When he spoke to Dean again, his tone had changed back to it's usual gruffness. _"Look, son, I can't really talk now. And this isn't the sort of conversation we should be having over the phone anyway. I'll call you when I know more about what we're dealing with." _The dial tone in Dean's ear signalled the end of the conversation, leaving him blinking at his cell phone with his head spinning.

* * *

The door rattled, the lock clicking open. Sam's eyes darted to the entrance, watching Dean step into the room. The older man looked lost in thought, his gaze directed at the floor. Sam turned away before Dean could catch him staring.

Dean set a McDonald's bag on the table, his hand hovering over it like he wasn't sure he wanted to open it or not. He didn't glance Sam's way, didn't even acknowledge that there was someone else in the room with him, and finally Sam had to break the silence between them.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

Dean jumped and spun around, a big fake grin pasted on his face. "Hey Sammy, everything's fine, why?"

Sam didn't buy it. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, everything's great. I bought you a bagel. You don't have to eat it now, I'll leave it here for you."

"Dean…"

"I'm gonna take a shower before I eat. I'll be right back." He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Sam alone in the room.

Something had happened. Something was wrong and Dean didn't want to tell him. Sam sighed and closed his eyes.

"Dean!"

Dean appeared in the doorway a second after Sam's yell. "What, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Dean, look." Sam pushed himself up from the bed, resisting the urge to groan as the movement sparked dull aches in his joints. "You don't have to protect me from everything. I'm okay. I'm not gonna break. Please."

He knew he didn't quite pull the imploring and earnest look off, _couldn't_, not while everything seemed so numb, but Sam hoped it would be enough. It was as if all his emotions were two steps further away, at a distance he could see and observe without actually feeling them.

Dean chewed his lower lip and looked to the side.

"What's going on? If something's happened I need to know."

With a visible exhale, Dean stepped back into the room. "Sammy," Dean's eyes pleaded silently and Sam wondered when the older man had become so adept at using _his_ expressions, his tactics for getting people to do what he wanted.

"Dean, please." Sam could see the tiny _please _breaking through Dean's determination and the other man sunk to the bed in defeat.

"My dad called me on the way back. He said…he said his friend Pastor Jim Murphy was killed last night."

_Pastor _Jim Murphy. Pastor as in priest. Sam nodded silently to himself, feeling echoes of the fresh ache in his chest. "His throat was slit?"

"Yeah." Dean met his eyes tentatively. "Sam, I didn't wanna tell you because it's _not _your fault. You couldn't have saved him, no one could have."

"Did your dad know why?"

"What?"

"Did he know why Pastor Murphy was killed? Was there a reason for it?"

"I-I dunno. Dad didn't say anything, but," Dean huffed air through his nose in a parody of a laugh, "that doesn't mean much when it comes to John Winchester."

Sam nodded again, avoiding Dean's eyes.

"Sam, do we need to talk about this?"

"No. No, it's fine. Go take your shower. I'll eat while you're in there and then we can get going."

He could hear Dean's unspoken question; _go where? _but he ignored it, picking up the bag of food on the table and sorting through it. They had no leads, no job. Nothing to go on. But they had to do _something_.

Sam turned away, intending on packing up the one tee shirt he'd taken out of his bag the night before. Two steps toward the bed and it was as if he'd walked straight into a sheet of thick glass. His skull _throbbed_ like it had been sawn open, his brain boiled in acid water, and he felt his legs give, pitching him backward. The sudden screaming in his ears was joined by a low whine that Sam distantly acknowledged as coming from his own mouth.

He had a second to think _no, this isn't how it happens_ before the moving picture started up on the insides of his eyelids and he was lost.

One minute Dean was watching Sam perform his I-feel-no-pain-I-feel-no-suffering routine, and then Dean was lunging across the motel room in what he was sure was a very spectacular save to catch the kid before his head collided with the table. He ended up sprawled out on the dirty carpet, Sam lying on his back across his chest, the kid's head cradled in his outstretched hand. Sam's eyes were screwed shut and his mouth twisted in a pained grimace.

And then his back arched up, his eyelids opening to reveal only the whites of his eyes. Sam was making a low keening noise, every muscle in his body tensed and rigid. Dean watched in mute horror for long moments before he was spurred into action, wrapping his arms around Sam's torso and trying to hold him still. It was as if he was having some kind of fit, and Dean searched his memory for anything Sam might have told him that would indicate he was prone to them.

Before Dean could properly organise his chaotic mind, Sam's body suddenly sagged in his arms. The kid blinked wildly, his breath coming in short gasps and his hair sticking to his forehead. He looked up at Dean, and his eyes were stretched wide and scared.

* * *

"It was a vision. But…I don't understand…I've-I've never had them like that. I…I didn't even have a headache." Sam's voice cracked and he coughed pathetically into a shaky fist. Dean had practically carried him over to the bed and spread him on his back, despite his weak struggles. The vision seemed to have knocked him for six; his arms not strong enough to support his weight when he tried to sit up.

Dean sat himself beside the kid, stroking his hair away from his face and ignoring Sam's protests. "Calm down Sammy, you need a second. Just breathe."

"We don't have time! I saw…I saw…" His voice seemed to run out like a dying battery-powered radio. He continued to try and mouth words at Dean, tiny squeaks emitting from the back of his throat.

"Okay, okay Sammy, just take a second. You can tell me in a second, let me get you some water first." Dean resisted the urge to kiss Sam's forehead as he got up.

In the bathroom Dean caught a look at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink; his eyes dark and shadowed and lines digging themselves into the skin around the corners of his lips. It was nothing compared to how Sam must be feeling. Dean ran the cold water, filling a glass and splashing a little on his face.

How much more was the kid expected to go through? How much more could _he _take? Dean felt selfish for thinking it, like giving it air, even in his own head, was tantamount to a betrayal. But he hadn't even been allowed time to digest the fact that Sam was apparently demon-bred. Instead he had to watch the kid go through increasingly painful visions, and he was expected to know how to deal with the fallout.

"Dean…" Sam croaked out from the other room, pushing his legs into motion. His complaints could wait. Sam couldn't.

"Here Sammy, drink." Dean knelt beside the bed, holding the rim of the glass to Sam's lips with one hand and sliding the other around the back of his neck to help him into a good position.

Sam gulped down the water like he didn't know if he was ever going to get a drink again. Dean watched, his head tilted and his eyebrows raised. _If that were alcoholic and we were in a drinking contest, I'd lose so bad. _He shook his head to dispel the bizarrely inappropriate thought and put the empty glass on the bedside cabinet. Sam started talking as soon as Dean faced him.

"Dean, we have to go, we have to get to Wisconsin before tonight…"

"Wisconsin?"

"Yeah, Wisconsin, it was a motel room, and the…the sign, outside the room, it said 'Starlight Inn, Wisconsin'…" Sam pawed at Dean's arm, "I saw…I saw Caleb. He was tied to a chair in the room, and…and…"

Dean was already up and moving, reaching for his cell phone.

* * *

They weren't driving fast enough. Sam glared in the direction of the Impala's dash, as if he could will speed into the car with the power of his stare. Beside him, Dean was gripping the wheel tightly, his jaw clenched tight. The other man hadn't spoken after helping Sam into the car.

John hadn't picked up when Dean called and neither had Caleb. Two terse voicemail messages were left, and Sam hoped like hell one of them would check their phone, because otherwise it all relied on them. On him.

As if Dean read his mind, his foot pressed down on the gas. The bright morning sunshine glowed above the horizon in front of them, beckoning them forward.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

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Chapter 15

They reached the Starlight Inn at sundown.

Sam stumbled from the Impala, hot on Dean's heels as the other man ran for the motel office. John's black truck was parked in the lot, a sleeping dragon. They were here, _Caleb _was here. Sam prayed they weren't too late.

"…a tall guy, head shaved, wears black? He's with an older guy, owns that black truck out front." Dean was already demanding to know the room number from the wide-eyed girl behind the reception desk.

"Uh, sir, we're not really supposed to give out that kind of information…"

"Make an exception!" She looked alarmed as Dean loomed over her, both hands planted firmly on the desk. It seemed to work though; the girl picked up the motel log book in shaking hands and started flicking through the pages. Dean made an impatient noise and snatched it out of her hands, turning pages himself.

"Here. Room 109. C'mon!" He pitched the book to one side and ran for the door, leaving Sam to trail in his wake.

The sun was sparking it's dying rays across the sky, streaks of gold that shivered in the cooling air.

In his vision, the sun had already disappeared.

They had time. It wasn't much, but Sam thanked god for small favours anyway as he scrambled toward Dean. His legs still felt weak, a combination of the toll the vision had taken and his moonlight sprint across Stephen's land a few nights' previous. He pushed it to one side.

Dean stopped by the Impala, throwing up the false bottom to the trunk and digging around one-handed. Sam made it to his side as he found what he was looking for; a shotgun loaded with buckshot and two flasks of holy water. Sam snatched up a knife, plain-looking but blessed with holy water and lined with silver. The blade was as long as his forearm and the grip moulded to his hand like it knew him. Dean gave him a brief look at his choice of weapon but didn't say anything.

Room 109 was at the end of the lot, the setting sun reflecting off the window panes like a signal. The curtains were pulled and Dean paused outside, meeting Sam's eyes before kicking the door in without warning.

The room was dark and it took a second for Dean's eyes to adjust to the light. He stood in the doorway, leaving no room for Sam to push past him. If something was going to shoot at them, it would have to go through him to reach Sam.

The scene unveiled itself like mist clearing across a field in early morning. Caleb, bound and gagged to a wooden chair in the centre of the room, staring at them with eyes stretched so wide Dean could see the whites all around the irises. A dark stain on the side of his head swept downward like some bizarre tattoo, and Dean realised it was dried blood. The furniture had been shoved to the back wall in a mess of blankets and table legs and overturned beds, leaving clear space all around the single chair.

A glance to one side revealed his father, gun in hand pointed at a young man Dean didn't recognise. The man was short and smaller than John, sandy coloured hair spilling into his eyes. His hands were raised in the universal sign of surrender, but the fingers of his left hand were securely wrapped around a dagger.

John looked over at the sudden interruption and the man took his opening.

"Dad!" Dean raised the shotgun, fired once. The noise was tremendous in the enclosed space. The man flew back, hit squarely in the chest. He landed in a heap on top of a table which collapsed under his weight.

Dean strode into the room, reaching Caleb's side at the same time as John. They didn't speak, dropping to their knees in synchronised movements to release the tied man from his bindings.

Dean was so intent on the knots at Caleb's ankles that he didn't notice the movement from the far end of the room. The groan of fractured wood as the unknown man pushed himself to his feet.

"So. This must be the son." Dean and John turned as one, Caleb straining from his prone position to see.

The man was standing, his chest pouring blood and gore like he was a special effect in a zombie movie. He smirked like he didn't even feel it, twirling the dagger between his fingers. "Dean Winchester, I presume. _You_ wouldn't happen to know where your daddy keeps the Colt, would you?"

John was on his feet again, gun raised. "Don't you take another step."

The man's smirk grew. "Or you'll do what? You can't kill me. You can't _stop_ me. The only way I'll let you and your boys live is if you tell me where the gun is."

"I don't have the goddamn gun!"

"No, not with you. But you know where it is. Someone's keeping it safe for you, aren't they? And I think you better tell me who, or we'll just have to visit every one of your friends until we find it."

"I swear, I don't have it! I don't know where it is!" John practically bellowed, his gun still pointed at the man-demon's chest despite the fact that it would do no good.

"You're lying." All amusement dropped from the man's voice, his face becoming blank. "Someone you know has it."

Dean wrenched the knots free from around Caleb's feet, tearing a fingernail as he did it. The sharp unexpected pain forced a tiny squeak from his throat. Enough to get the demon's attention.

"Hey, now. Don't do that, I spent so much time tying him up. Wriggled like a fucking fish, he did. I'm gonna slit his throat just for the hell of it." He smiled at the words.

Then he was suddenly in front of John, the hand holding the dagger raised. Dean saw it like a snapshot, a frame of light captured in strobe lighting. It was too fast for him to react, too late for him to move.

John was on the floor, and Dean stared in horror. And then John groaned, rolling onto his back. High on his cheekbone a dark spot bloomed like a rose, blood rushing to the surface where the skin had split under the force of the blow. A tiny trickle of relief slid down Dean's back. The demon must have hit John with the hilt of the dagger. Leaving him alive for further interrogation.

Dean looked up. The demon was behind Caleb, the dagger held tightly in one hand as he lowered it to Caleb's throat. Caleb groaned through the gag, his feet kicking themselves free of the now-loose ropes that held them. His fingers flexed uselessly on the arms of the chair. Dean's hand was on the shotgun, lifting it and taking aim.

But in a blink, the demon was gone from his line of sight. The crashing sound of an impact reached his ears a second later, making him think randomly of thunderstorms and lightning and the speed of sound. _I should've counted_, he thought stupidly.

He staggered to his feet, supporting himself on Caleb's tied frame.

Sam was on top of the demon-man, both of them sprawled on the dingy motel room carpet. Both of them wielding knives that flashed in the dim light. Dean had almost forgotten Sam, and that had been his mistake. His heart felt like it was locked in a vice. Sam had thrown himself at the damn demon without regard for his own safety.

They wrestled on the floor for a second before Sam was launched across the room, landing with his back against the wall. He gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs.

"Damn, they told me little Sammy Miller was playing with the Winchesters, but I didn't think he'd be so _suicidal_." The demon was on his feet, grinning spitefully and ignoring the bloody wounds on his body.

Dean raised the shotgun again, but before he could fire, the dagger was tossed in his direction. He threw himself back onto the floor, losing his grip on the gun as he fell.

A sickening crack came from Sam's direction and Dean saw the demon, his hands fisted in Sam's shirt as he slammed the kid against the wall again. Sam's eyes screwed shut as his head impacted heavily.

Sam managed to lift a clenched fist, smashing it into the side of the demon's borrowed face before he could be body-slammed again. The demon didn't even flinch, his grin widening.

"You'll have to do better than that, Sammy."

And then the demon was somehow stumbling backward, his grip on Sam's shirt loosening. He regained his footing quickly, hissing through his teeth, but it was enough for Sam to slip away, flopping sideways and catching himself on the windowsill. The man-demon half turned to follow Sam, and Dean saw what had made him falter.

Sam's blessed knife protruded from the demon's stomach, driven into the flesh so far that the blade wasn't even visible. It was angled upward, the metal dug into the organs beneath the ribcage. The man whose skin this demon had stolen would be dead if the demon was ever exorcised.

The demon grabbed hold of Sam again, pulling him forward and meeting his face with a solid uppercut. Sam's eyes rolled back and he visibly forced himself to stay conscious.

Then John was up, and there, and forcing the demon back with a spray of holy water from a flask kept in the breast pocket of his jacket. The demon hissed again and released Sam.

Dean wanted desperately to get to Sam, to push him outside the room and make him run as far away as possible. But Caleb moaned through his gag and Dean forced himself to climb to his knees and resume untying the ropes that held the other man down.

He didn't look up from his work as John started chanting in Latin, as the demon snarled viciously.

Sam's head ached like it was trying to make up for the lack of pain before his most recent vision. It had been stupid throwing himself at the demon while it held the dagger, he knew. Despite it's human body, the demon inside made the man much stronger than he could ever hope to be. But it had been like watching himself through a haze of smoke, knowing what his body would do before it did it and being unable to stop. But, he reasoned, if he hadn't done what he'd done, Caleb would be choking on his own blood right now.

Sam forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his jaw. John was spitting an exorcism at the demon, holding the useless gun in a firm grip. The bloody knot high on his cheekbone was black against the washed-out white of his skin.

Suddenly the demon lunged to one side, and Sam was propelling himself forward again without another thought. He caught the man by the upper arm, clenching a fist and bringing it down. The man's nose squashed in a crunch of bone, like crushing a baby bird in one hand. The demon didn't react to the abuse, the man's eyes turning black and emotionless.

"You like beating up men, Sammy-boy? You like hurting?" Sam recoiled, his hands falling away.

"You're a demon. You don't deserve anything less." He spoke through clenched teeth, too low for anyone but the demon to hear. "You deserve to suffer."

The demon smiled through the man's bloody and swollen face. "You think so?" Before it could say anything more, the man screamed, his head thrown back. Black mist like swarms of angry flies erupted from his mouth, swirling in a tornado before hitting the ceiling and exploding into nothing.

As the scream died away, the freed man met Sam's eyes, his own bloodshot and terrified. A tiny choked noise spilled from his throat and he fell forward, landing on his front. The point of the knife slid through his body, his shirt splitting cleanly on the sharp tip. The light blue material around the exit wound blossomed with dark whorls.

Dean watched the now demon-free man fall, his jaw clenched tight. The room was silent, the lack of sound ringing louder than the screams the demon had made before it was sent back to hell.

It was like some crazy version of musical statues. The music had stopped, so everyone was playing dead. John stood stock still in the corner of the room, his gun in one hand and the flask of holy water in the other. Sam was crouched over the body of the man, his face empty of expression.

The freeze in time was broken by Caleb, grunting through his gag and kicking out with his freed leg to get Dean's attention. Mechanically, Dean began untying the ropes that held his wrists to the arms of the chair.

John sucked in a huge breath, Caleb's movements seeming to spur him into action. "Okay, c'mon, we all need to be far away from here as soon as possible. The cops'll be on their way."

Caleb pulled the gag from his mouth, spitting on the floor with his face screwed up in disgust.

John strode to his side, pulling him from the chair and pointing him wordlessly at the bags and weapons littered around the room. Without having to be told, Caleb began gathering things up and stuffing them into bags.

His father met Dean's eyes, emotions trying to be conveyed where speech failed. Dean pushed past him and went to Sam's side.

"Hey, c'mon Sammy, we gotta go." Sam turned to him, blinking in slow motion. His face was red in the places the demon had gotten hits in. Dean tugged at his arm, pulling him toward the door.

Caleb and John followed, Caleb stumbling as the blood rushed back to his hands and feet. They hurried outside, splitting to go to their respective vehicles. John caught Dean's arm before he could lead Sam away.

"Dean. We'll head for Minnesota. You follow us." Dean blinked at his dad's sudden about-face, his head nodding automatically at the order.

* * *

They turned into the first motel they came to in Minnesota, Dean's head only able to focus on the simple task of following the taillights of his dad's truck. Sam was motionless in the passenger seat, seemingly unaware of his injuries. He stared straight ahead into the endless black of the road like it had a secret it was trying to tell him.

They parked up next to the truck. John stepped out and signalled for Dean to come over.

"You go in and book the rooms. You're the only one of us who doesn't look like they've been in a bad bar fight." Dean nodded obediently and went with a final glance back at Sam.

After handing over the keys to one of the rooms John and Caleb left, the unspoken agreement to wait until morning to discuss the events hanging in the air. Dean concerned himself with getting Sam to the room.

Sam, who still wasn't saying a word, wasn't moving unless Dean was there to help him. Dean wondered if he should take him to a hospital.

But once they reached the room the kid seemed to come alive again, blinking hard as if he'd merely stayed up late one too many nights in a row. He glanced over at Dean with blank eyes. "I'm going to take a shower. Unless you want one first?"

"No, you go ahead kid." Sam disappeared into the bathroom with a nod, and Dean called after him. "Come out when you're done, I wanna check you over, see what needs fixing up." When no reply came, Dean huffed and headed back to the car to pick up the stuff they'd need for the night.

Sam seemed to have gotten away lightly considering the beating he took. None of his injuries were bad enough to need bandages, although there'd be some pretty colours spreading along the line of his jaw by the next day. Dean left him slouched on one of the beds while he took his own shower, eager to get the day's taint off his skin.

When he stepped out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he suddenly found himself with armfuls of Sam. He staggered backward a step under the unexpected attack, catching the kid's weight before they both toppled to the ground. Sam's arms wound themselves around his bare waist, fingers sliding against the top of the towel protecting his modesty.

Dean let out a surprised squeak that turned to a moan halfway, Sam's quick mouth pressed hard against his. The kiss turned dirty fast, hot and messy open-mouthed licks that made them both pant. Sam spun Dean around, walking him backward until the backs of his legs hit the bed. The kid pushed him down and he sat heavily, legs splayed open like an invitation. Dean had a second to think _shouldn't be doing this _before Sam was straddling his lap, fucking _writhing _against him in a way that made him clutch at the kid's hips and jerk him down hard. Sam went with it, his body liquid and his eyes dark.

Hands were pressing him back and Dean allowed himself to be spread out on the bed, his mouth searching for Sam's again. Sam's forearms came up to rest either side of Dean's head as they ate at each others' mouths and his hips did some kind of smooth roll that had Dean groaning and bucking upward, suddenly desperate for something to rut against. Sam was wearing boxers and a tee shirt and Dean's hands slid under to clench on the velvet skin above his hipbones, hard enough to leave bruises. It felt so good, it felt _too _good, and Dean tried to remember why he shouldn't be doing this. But his thoughts were scattered like leaves in the wind and Sam kept distracting him with the flex of his skin, so warm and soft under his hands.

Sam was hard, his boxers doing little to conceal the fact. Dean knew Sam could feel his answering arousal through the thin motel towel wrapped not-so-securely around his waist. The grinding at his hips wasn't helping, was making Dean's eyes roll back and embarrassing noises spill from deep in his chest. And Sam kept _kissing_, feeding at his mouth like it was the only thing left in the world. Dean wanted to roll the kid over and press him into the mattress; suck on his lower lip until he came in his boxers like a teenager seeing his first dirty magazine.

Like the teenager Sam still _was_.

Dean twisted his head to one side so fast he was surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. Sam tried to follow his mouth but Dean caught his face with one hand. "Sam, Sammy, we can't, you know we can't." He'd meant it to sound commanding, but instead the words came out sounding breathless and pleading.

"Why not? I _want _to." Sam whispered, pressing his hips down firmly. Dean screwed his eyes shut.

"I know, but…"

"But what? I want to, you want to. We can." Sam's voice had never sounded so seductive, his lips punctuating the end of the sentence with soft kisses along Dean's jaw.

"You're upset and your head's messed up. You're not ready for this yet, Sammy." Dean said, stilling those wonderful kisses with a gentle press of his palm against Sam's cheek. Sam stared at him, the heat in his eyes turning to petulant anger. His jaw clenched, the darkening bruise twitching with the movement, and he threw himself off Dean.

Dean held back the groan that wanted to escape, either relief or frustration at the loss of contact, he wasn't sure which. Didn't have time to investigate either, because Sam was curling up on his side, his back to Dean.

Dean reached out a hand and tried to roll him back over. Sam pulled away.

"Sammy. Please." Sam didn't say anything and Dean sighed. "Sam. Stop sulking and talk to me. What the hell's this about?"

Sam did react to that, sitting up and facing Dean with eyes narrowed. "It wasn't _about_ anything. I just wanted to, okay?"

"No, it's not. Talk to me, Sam." Dean hoped he could pull off John Winchester's commanding look. Something seemed to work anyway, Sam's harsh expression softening slightly.

"Look, I just…" His mouth worked on words that wouldn't come, his face creasing in frustration. Then he blinked and the look disappeared. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push. Can we just go to sleep?"

Dean watched him silently for a second before nodding. "Okay Sammy." The words sounded like a defeat.

* * *

So, apparently Sam wasn't talking to him now. Dean had even gotten up early to buy his favourite jelly donuts from the store down the street, charming his way into the place before it opened via the motherly looking woman sweeping the floor inside, and all he'd gotten for his troubles was a grunt and a nod.

Now the kid was sitting in John and Caleb's room, staring blankly out of the window while John showered and Caleb wandered around cleaning unnecessarily, making exaggerated pained noises every time he had to bend to pick something up.

John stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed a few minutes later and Dean straightened without thinking.

"Okay boys. I guess we have some talking to do."

"Yessir." Dean murmured.

John sat down heavily on the edge of one of the beds, Caleb finally settling on the other. "So, how did you know where we were?" John asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.

"Sam had a vision." Dean answered for the both of them.

John sighed and nodded. "Well, it's probably a good thing you showed up when you did."

Dean felt indignant. A _good thing_? They'd almost killed themselves driving across the country, breaking speed limits and running red lights left right and centre, only for John to say _it's probably a good thing_? Before he could open his mouth, John ploughed on.

"We have to be more careful. The demon knows we're after it, it's known all along. But I thought we'd have more time." The last sentence was said almost to himself.

"What did it want? It was saying something about a Colt?" Dean spoke before he could help himself and nearly regretted it before thinking _fuck that_. They were all in danger. They deserved to know why.

John was silent for a long time, and Dean looked to Caleb. The shaven-headed man shifted under the scrutiny, staring at John. His dad finally spoke. "The Colt is the gun we've been searching for. It's said a single bullet from that gun can kill anything. It's the only thing I've ever heard of that has a chance of working against the demon. But I don't understand why the demon is sending people after all the hunters I know. I haven't found it yet."

"Is that why Pastor Jim was killed?" Dean said quietly.

"Yes."

Caleb sighed suddenly, breaking into the father-son conversation. "We've been looking all over for that damn gun. Last person to've seen it was a man named Daniel Elkins. Hunted vampires."

"Vampires?" Dean snorted, the beginnings of a smirk growing on his lips. "Vampires aren't real."

"Not true." Caleb said bluntly. "They're nearly all extinct now, s'why no one's heard of them for a while. But they're real. This guy Elkins specialised in killing 'em. Until one of them killed _him_, that is."

Dean shook his head in disbelief, glancing over at Sam. The kid hadn't moved or reacted to the conversation at all, still staring out the window like there was something exciting going on in the deserted parking lot.

"So where did Elkins see it?"

"Elkins had it for a while." John said. "But it wasn't anywhere in his belongings when he died. I looked. Apparently he passed it on."

"Or it was stolen from him." Caleb chimed in.

John shook his head. "No, I knew Elkins. If he had that gun, he would've made damn sure it stayed safe. And he never would've given it up unless he had a good reason."

"A good reason like 'killing the demon' good?" Dean asked. John nodded silently, leaning forward, elbows on his knees with hands linked between them. "So how do we find it now? If some other hunter's got it, it's not likely they're gonna advertise the fact, if it's what you say it is."

Caleb snorted on a laugh. "Yep, that's what I been saying. But like your daddy says, we don't know of anything else that might have a shot at working against this bitch. So, on with the hunt we go."

Dean pressed his eyes closed, suddenly tired all over again. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, too worried about Sam and his out-of-character behaviour to settle. The kid had lain quietly beside him all night, and at first Dean had tried to wrap arms around him, make sure he didn't feel rejected on top of everything else. But Sam had shrugged him off, not unkindly, but still sending out clear 'don't touch me' signals. Which was a first in Dean's book. Sam was the most tactile person he'd ever met, hungry for any small affection Dean might throw his way. Even if it was a friendly punch on the arm or a tap on the back of the head.

"Do you know what this thing even looks like? I mean, you could've had it in front of you and passed right over it. Or someone could con you with a fake one, if the only way of testing it we have is to kill something and make sure it stays dead." Caleb brightened at Dean's words, jumping up without a hint of his earlier discomfort and rifling through a stack of papers balanced on the dresser.

"We have a drawing someone made of it."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, from the turn of the century. We have no idea if that's the real thing though."

"It's the best we got. I figure, compare it with any possibilities, we at least get an idea." Caleb said with a sharp look at John. He handed over a printed page.

It was a hand drawn sketch, an old revolver shaded in grey and white. Dean looked at it for a long moment.

He didn't notice Sam perking up by the window until the kid was leaning over his shoulder to see the page. Dean glanced up at him. Sam frowned, the first time he'd displayed any kind of expression all morning. Without a word, he took the paper from Dean's hands, looking closely at it with the frown still creasing his forehead.

And then his lips curved up in a bitter smile that looked too old for his face. "Well, goddamn."

"Huh?" Dean said intelligently. Caleb and John were both watching Sam with expressions of bemusement.

Sam lowered the paper without meeting anyone's eyes. "I've seen this gun. I've _held _it, cleaned it more times than I can count."

Dean's stomach made a sickening swoop, and he hoped to god that Sam wouldn't say what he thought he was going to say.

The kid barked out a laugh that wasn't the slightest bit funny. "My dad has it."


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter, I'm glad you guys are liking it :) Please keep it up, it's helpful to know what everyone thinks of it, just to make sure I'm doing it right! Next update will be on Saturday…

Chapter 16

"No! I don't give a flying fuck about the damned gun, we are _not _gonna track down your father!" Dean yelled as he paced furiously from one end of the motel room to the other, his hands twisting together like agitated snakes.

Sam sat calmly in the chair he'd vacated moments before, the younger man's eyes tracking Dean's movements. Caleb and John had wisely elected to stay quiet. Dean was glad. If his dad had even _tried _to talk him into this, he would have punched him.

"Dean, it's the only way. We need the gun." Sam's irritatingly rational reply did little to help his rising anger.

"I don't care! Fuck this, fuck the goddamned demon, _I don't care_! It's not worth it!"

"Dean, watch your mouth." John spoke up. "And this isn't your decision to make. We need that gun or more people will die."

Dean spun to face his father. "Dad, no offence, but this has nothing to do with you. Stay out of it."

John's face tightened and he was about to get to his feet before Caleb put a hand on his arm.

"Look, Dean," Sam began, drawing his attention back. "I don't want to see him any more than you do. But we need that gun. We need to have something that works against the demon. And," he took a long breath, "I think he'll give it to us without any trouble."

Dean let out a hoarse laugh, tinged with more than a little hysteria. "What the hell makes you think that?"

Sam looked down at his lap. "Because he wants to get the demon as much as any of us."

Dean closed his eyes, blocking out the oh-so-reasonable looks of everyone else in the room. _They _may all want to get the demon enough to die in it's name, but right then he couldn't care less. "Sam," He started, trying to sound composed, "do you honestly think, after how you left things with your dad the last time you saw him, that he would just hand it over with a nod and a smile?"

Sam's eyes darkened. "No I don't. But I _do _know that once he's thought it through…"

"Thought it through? Don't you mean sobered up?" Dean said nastily, regretting the words as Sam flinched. But he couldn't stop. He had to make his point, make Sam understand. Before anyone did anything stupid. "He won't give it to you just because you ask him nicely."

Sam jumped to his feet with a burst of frantic energy, his face twisted and his eyes shining and for a second Dean was just glad to provoke some kind of reaction in him. "Yeah, I know that! He probably wouldn't give it to _me _anyway, I know how he feels about me! I _disgust _him, don't you think I know that?" He took two steps to the door, wrenched it open and was gone before Dean could say anything else.

Dean took a step to go after him but John grabbed his arm. "Son, leave him for a minute."

"Dad! I have to…"

"I got it, don't worry." Caleb said as he followed Sam. Dean tried to go after them both but John's hand was firm on his forearm, restraining him.

"Let him calm down. Caleb's with him, he'll be okay."

"No, dad, I have to go after him!" _I should be the one to make sure he's okay._

John ignored his protests, instead leading him to the bed and pressing on his shoulder until he sat. The older man didn't let go, despite Dean's desperate attempts to escape until he finally relented with a loud exhale. Sam would be gone by now, out of his sight and beyond his reach. Dean fisted hands in the ugly floral pattern bedcovers, gripping hard enough to imprint wrinkles in the well-used sheets.

"I didn't mean to yell at him."

"I know you didn't." John said, his gaze focused on the bathroom door over Dean's left shoulder. "And I know that whatever you were yelling about, that it was important. But Dean, we need that gun. And if Sam can get it…"

"He can't." Dean said bluntly. "He's not going after his father. You don't know what the man did to him."

John looked at Dean for a long moment. Dean held his gaze unwaveringly. John broke first, sighing heavily and rubbing at his beard with one hand.

"I met Jim Miller once, a long time ago. He didn't have Sam with him then, but I've heard…things, from other hunters who've worked with him since, about how he treated Sam growing up. I can't say I liked what I heard, but it doesn't change the fact that we need the Colt, and that Jim Miller has it."

Dean leaned forward, his thumbs pressing into his closed eyes like he could claw them out. No one was _listening _to him. But that tiny nagging voice in the back of his head whispered the blasphemous words he couldn't quite dispel, no matter how much he tried. That they were right. It wasn't fair, not in any sense, but Sam, his dad, Caleb, they were _right_. They needed to kill the demon, and to do that they needed the Colt. And Jim Miller had it.

* * *

Sam slowed to a sharp walk as soon as he was out of sight of the motel. The sun was brilliant on his back, burning the top of his head and making the skin between his shoulder blades itch with sweat.

Couldn't Dean see? This was bigger than any of them. They had to put aside all their personal issues and get the damn job done.

A truck blew past, kicking up clouds of dry dust in it's wake. Sam blinked as it curled in his eyes, tears welling up. He fisted his face roughly. The tears slid out regardless and he turned his face away from the road, from anyone who might see.

"Sam! Hey, wait up kiddo!" Sam glanced behind him, seeing Caleb jogging down the street after him, wincing. He felt a little bad for making Caleb run with the injuries he'd sustained. "Hey, where you goin', kid?"

"Away. I just…just need to clear my head is all. Need to be alone for a minute."

"Sure, I understand. I'll come with." Caleb grinned winningly at Sam, looping an arm around his shoulders and completely ignoring the leave-me-alone vibes Sam was exuding.

He stayed resolutely silent as Caleb led him through the town, past old ladies and their shopping bags and little boys running ecstatically around their mothers' legs. The other man didn't seem to mind his silence, talking enough for the both of them and filling the space around them with hums of sound that Sam didn't attempt to decipher. Finally they reached a tiny diner opposite the local high school and Sam stopped. Caleb paused in conversation, his arm still around Sam's shoulders.

"You know, it might help if you talked about it."

"You already know everything." Sam said brusquely.

Caleb rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean you don't need to talk about it. Let it out, dude, I'm not gonna judge."

Sam took a slow breath, closing his eyes on Caleb's expectant face. Without saying a word he turned and stalked into the diner. Coffee would help. Simple solutions to complicated problems.

Caleb tagged along on his heels like an overeager dog. He followed Sam as he placed an order, pointedly requesting a table for one when the waitress asked. Caleb sat opposite anyway, dragging a chair from the table next to his.

"Okay kiddo, you wanna play it like that? Fine, you don't have to talk. But I'm bestowing the honour of my company on you here, and although I'm getting the idea that you're less than thrilled about it, you're gonna put up with it." He grinned brightly.

"Look Caleb, I appreciate you following me and all, really I do, but I'm fine. I just need some time to myself." Sam said, staring into his coffee mug. "I don't need to talk."

"So that little outburst back at the motel, that was you being fine?"

"That was Dean pissing me off."

"See, I don't think it was." Caleb said, his voice turning serious. "You don't really seem like the yelling type, 'specially not when it comes to Dean."

Sam blinked hard. "I was just…it just wound me up, is all."

"What did? Dean, or the thought of seeing your dad?"

The quick question was like a slap in the face and Sam stumbled for an easy answer. "I…"

"Because no offence, but I'm thinking you'd be pretty messed up about your dad, 'specially on top of the whole demon thing _and_ the visions. If it was me dealin' with all that, I'd be so screwed up I wouldn't know my nose from my asshole. Which is why I'm thinkin' talking is probably a good idea." He leaned back in his seat, surveying the diner with a deceptively casual gaze. "Or you could just keep on with the strong silent act, wait for your brain to explode with the pressure and start dripping out your ears."

"I…" Sam couldn't seem to form a sentence in his head, the words jumbling up and mixing with Caleb's. The blood was pounding at his temples and for a second he was worried that his brain might _actually _explode.

Caleb leaned forward again, his eyes somehow stripped of all shade, revealing sympathy and deep intelligence that Sam hadn't guessed at. "Sammy-boy, I'm not tryin' to mess with you here. But you gotta let it out. You don't have to carry all this by yourself."

Sam stood suddenly, shoving his chair back. The diner, which had seemed like a good place to be invisible and blend with the happy sounds of friends chatting over cheap food and drink, was now too busy, too crowded and claustrophobic. The smells of burnt bacon fat and fried bread emanating from the kitchen made him want to throw up. He practically ran outside, stopping by the door and gulping down air like he was drowning.

Caleb followed him more sedately, giving him a second to catch up with himself. He stepped outside, standing beside Sam without looking at him, hands in pockets.

Sam waited for him to start talking again, but the other man seemed content to stand and people-watch for the moment, his face upturned to catch the sun.

"My dad used to treat me like crap." Sam said, his mouth spilling secrets without his permission. A tiny part of his mind screamed at him to _shut up, this isn't the way we do it_, but Caleb didn't say anything, didn't even look his way. It was as if he hadn't even heard Sam, and for some strange reason it filled Sam with relief. Strength growing in his chest, he continued. "I can't remember him ever treating me like his son, like he loved me. I never…I never even questioned it until I got old enough to notice other families, moms and dads that loved their children. Even then I didn't think to ask why." He scuffed his sneaker on the sidewalk, watching the rubber sole leave a faint mark on the grey stone.

"I guess…I guess I thought, it was normal, y'know? Normal for me. Dad was different from all the other dads in the world because _we_ were different, we did things those other dads and sons couldn't even understand. But now…" He dragged in a shaky breath. "Now, I get it. I know why he treated me so bad, I can understand why he…hates me."

"Just 'cause you can sympathise with the guy doesn't mean he was _right_." Caleb spoke quietly.

"The demon made me. If it wasn't for…_that_, I wouldn't be here."

"True. But if it wasn't for your visions, I wouldn't be here either. I'd be lyin' dead in some shitty motel room right about now, waitin' for the maid to find me. So I gotta say, I'm pretty damn grateful you're here."

Sam blinked and turned to stare at Caleb. The other man continued to gaze out across the street serenely, as if they were just two inconsequential guys talking about inconsequential things.

"And I'm thinkin' Dean's not hating having you around either, kid. Not just anyone that can give him cause to shout at his daddy like he did."

"Yeah, I bring so much joy and happiness to his life." Sam said bitterly.

Caleb chuckled quietly, as if Sam had made a joke. "Life ain't all sunshine and moonbeams, princess. You gotta give yourself a chance."

Sam didn't know what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut and let his gaze wander over the shop-fronted street, watching strangers buying clothes and toys and cat food. Beside him, he heard Caleb blow out a long breath of air that sounded like relief, but when Sam looked over, the other man wore the same unchanged expression of calm.

* * *

Dean scrubbed hard at the barrel of the rifle, the rag clenched in his fist. After watching him resume his jerky pacing of the room for half an hour, eventually his dad had sat him forcibly down and told him to do something productive. Another half hour on and half of John's weapons cache were spread out in oily pieces on the bedspread while Dean attacked them with metal polish. His arm ached from the tense assault, but Dean figured it was better to let the anger out before Sam got back.

And Sam _still_ wasn't back yet, and Caleb was doing what was supposed to be _Dean's _job. _And he really hopped to it, too_, Dean thought before he could stop himself. _Almost like he - gasp - _wanted _something from Sam_. Dean shook his head. Caleb didn't want anything from Sam, not like that. Dean was sure of it. Mostly.

He renewed his furious scrubbing with a vigour.

John stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing at his neck with a pained expression. Dean felt bad when he saw it, felt petty and selfish at his jealous thoughts. The two older men were focused on the job. _Sam _was focused on the job. Dean was the only one making a fuss, letting his own feelings get in the way.

At that moment the door to the room swung open, Caleb outlined against the bright sunlight for a second before he stepped inside.

"Hey, we're back." He said with a grin. Sam stepped in after him, his head down. Caleb patted him on the shoulder and he looked up at the shaven-headed man with a small smile. "Sammy-boy's feeling better now."

Dean stood up, ignoring Caleb. "Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam interrupted before he could say anything else. "No Dean, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have let it all get to me like that." He tried a smile, shyly meeting Dean's eyes. "I didn't mean to run out on you."

"Hey, it's okay. I was just worried is all. It's fine."

"And I know you don't want to find my dad…"

"Sam, if we need to track down your dad then that's what we'll do." Dean said, leaning in close. He desperately wanted to hug Sam, reassure him, but he was acutely aware of his father and Caleb watching them. "I just…I don't want you to have to go through all that, not again."

Sam looked away. "Yeah, I know. I…I don't want to see him again either. But we need the gun."

"You don't have to," Dean said, his heart feeling lighter. "See him, I mean. Dad, maybe you and Caleb could go talk to him or something."

John glanced at Sam, his forehead creasing slightly. "Yeah. Maybe that'd be for the best." Beside him, Caleb nodded enthusiastically, his face split with a grin.

Sam peeked up through his bangs, his mouth in a shaky smile and his eyes blinking wide, like the innocent child he'd never been. "Yeah. Okay. Thank you."

Dean couldn't help the affectionate smile that spread across his lips. His arms almost reached out to hold the kid, stopping himself just in time. Apparently Sam had no such concerns though, stepping forward and wrapping himself against Dean's chest, his hands low on his hips. Dean flushed warm, trying to glance back at his dad, but Sam was insistent and his slowly breaking resolve crumbled. He hugged Sam back, letting his eyes close for a second. The kid smelled like woodland and wild grass, natural and fresh.

Sam pulled away with a final hug tight enough to squeeze the air out of Dean's lungs, his own face glowing faintly pink. He was smiling brightly but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "I should call Stephen. He'd probably know where my dad is, or at least know how to find him."

Dean nodded. "Yeah okay."

"I'll just step outside and do it. I'll be right back." Sam met his eyes evenly, looking past him to Caleb and John as he walked out of the door.

Dean waited for Sam's footsteps to fade away before he turned to Caleb. "Is he okay? Did he say anything to you?"

Caleb took a deep breath, the brilliant smile sliding off his face like it was never there. "He's messed up, over everything. It's all too much too fast, poor kid. Can't say I blame him for finally snapping earlier."

"Yeah. He's been acting like it doesn't bother him and I don't know what to do about it." Dean said, scratching at the back of his neck. God, he hated admitting he couldn't handle something by himself. And apparently so did Sam.

"Well, he talked to me about it. Not much, but enough."

Dean looked at the floor, hoping no one caught the sudden bitterness on his face. Sam was supposed to open up to _him_ about this stuff. Not to _Caleb_, of all people. He tried to push the emotion away. "What did he say?"

"That he was worried about the demon, the visions. His daddy."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him to get over it." Caleb said. Dean's head flew up, his eyes wide. Caleb laughed at the shock on his face. "Not in those words, of course. But basically, yeah. Nothing's to be done 'bout it now. It's either learn to live with it or let it break him. What else can he do?" The other man's expression turned regretful as he spoke.

Dean bit at his lower lip. He wished he could do something, anything. But Caleb was right. This was Sam's problem and he had to learn how to deal with it himself. But, Dean vowed, he wouldn't be alone.

The distinctive sound of the Impala's coughing engine broke into his thoughts, loud in the room. He frowned for a second, his hand going to his front jeans pocket.

Which was empty of his car keys.

He'd put them there this morning, had deliberately made sure he had them.

The hug Sam had pulled him into had been unusually tight. His face had been so innocent and open.

John was quicker than them all, suddenly at the door and wrenching it open, yelling something incoherent to Dean's ears. He blinked stupidly, his feet rooted in place before his limbs caught up with his screaming brain and he spurred himself forward.

He was out the door and running of the parking lot, Caleb on his heels and John kicking up gravel in front of him.

The three of them made it in time to see the sleek black car reach the end of the street and disappear.

* * *

Sam's eyes were streaming wet red tears as he drove away, the betrayal acrid and sore in his throat. He raised a clenched hand, cuffing at his face.

He couldn't cry, not now. It wasn't _allowed_, not while he had a job to do.

He'd been afraid that Dean would see through his deception, his too-easy acquiescence in the dank little motel room. But the other man's face had been happy, free of any doubt. Any worry that Sam might trick him. Caleb had let him talk, let him spill the secrets he carried so close to his heart. But none of them could understand, not really. He had to do this and he had to do it alone. He had to face his father again, without Dean as a shield.

John had looked wary when he'd hugged Dean, frowning in the background like he sensed the flavour of a lie but couldn't quite see where it was coming from.

Sam had slipped nimble fingers into Dean's pocket as he squeezed the older man close, and that had been the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. He hoped that Dean would feel the silent apology Sam pressed into his skin.

Dean had been so relieved to see him. So willing to accept him back. Sam had been tempted, desperately, to take the escape Dean offered. To let John and Caleb deal with Jim Miller and hide out in a motel room somewhere, curled up in Dean's presence.

But Sam _knew _his father, better than anyone. He wouldn't give up the Colt, not even to John, not even to allow the other man to kill the demon. Because he wouldn't _know for sure_. He wouldn't be able to trust anyone else to do it for him. He may have met both John and Caleb, but he would never trust either of them to get the job done.

There was a fine line between love and hate, and Jim's feeling toward Sam were strong, no matter which side of the line they fell under. And despite everything else, his father knew him, knew he could do whatever job was asked of him. Sam hoped it would be enough.

The Impala ate up miles beneath her tires, the tape deck pounding out Back In Black. Sam slapped a hand at the radio, clicking Dean's tape out and abruptly plunging himself into silence. The sun shone golden in his eyes and he let the tear tracks dry on his cheeks before picking up his cell phone. Stephen's number flashed on screen. He took a deep breath and pressed dial.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

As always, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far, I really appreciate hearing what you guys think :) Next chapter should be up on Wednesday if all goes well…

Chapter 17

Maine. His father was in Maine? It seemed like a pretty arbitrary place for Jim Miller to be spending time in. There hadn't been any supernatural occurrences in Maine that Sam had heard of, no hauntings, disappearances, unexplainable phenomena. Nothing to indicate why Jim had picked _that_ state out of any to drop in on.

According to Stephen's genius hacking skills, he'd been there for a few weeks now, camping out at a motel in practically the middle of nowhere under one of his many assumed names. It didn't sound like his father.

The Jim Miller Sam had spent the first sixteen years of his life with always had a purpose, a goal to be reached. The man was never still, whether it was hunting for a new job or drinking the local bar dry.

Well, he'd find out what was going on when he got there, Sam told himself firmly. No point in worrying about it now. His hands tightened involuntarily on the Impala's steering wheel, feeling the plaited leather beneath his fingertips. The car smelt of Dean, or maybe it was Dean that smelt of the car. Either way, the reminder was alternately a comfort and an ache deep in Sam's chest. He hoped Dean would forgive him for stealing his baby.

The interstate was stretched out in front of him, miles of blacktop with no end in sight. It was strangely soothing to be on his own, no sounds except for the thrum of the engine and the vibration of the tires.

It made him think back to before Dean, back when it was just him and his car, a trunk full of weapons and on the way to a new job. In a way that life had been simpler, clearer. He'd known what to do and he had a plan. Now, every new day was confusion and uncertainty. Suddenly he'd found himself in someone else's space, someone else's life. Dean was undoubtedly the best thing that had ever happened to him, but adapting to the other man had been a hit-and-miss procedure. Sam had had to learn a whole new routine; leaving enough hot water when he got first shower, paying extra for a motel room if it had a coffee maker so that Dean could have coffee without getting out of bed. Staying up later than he usually would to watch Dean conning locals out of their money at the nearest bar. The first time Sam had tried to get Dean moving at six in the morning, the other man had pulled him head-first back down onto the bed and wrapped the bed sheets around his body like a human-sized fly being wrapped in spiders-web. The two of them had been laughing so hard, poking and tickling at each other until Sam's eyes were running and his stomach hurt.

Sam had switched his cell phone off after hanging up on Stephen. No doubt Dean would be calling, furious and terrified. He hated to leave the other man like that, but he wouldn't understand if Sam tried to explain. Dean would rationalise, would offer alternate plans and solutions and tell him he didn't have to do anything he didn't want to. Sam bit his lip. It had been all too tempting to take the easy way out back at the motel, let John and Caleb handle his father. Sam had felt his resolve weakening, and dragging Dean into a hug had been all he could think of to stop it. To cement himself into his plan.

It hurt to know he had betrayed Dean like that, but that hurt felt distant now. As if with each mile put between him and Dean, the power that his old life had over him was reinstated. Everything felt easier. It was just him, all he had to worry about was getting the job done and making sure he survived it. It occurred to him that another definition for being alone was being selfish. Putting himself first, ahead of everyone else.

The road continued on, a strip of black ribbon with white stitching following the centre. Sam pressed his foot down on the accelerator, feeling the engine rev in response, and he could almost pretend he was back in his cherry-red Mustang.

* * *

Dean paced.

John was sat at the small table in the motel room, journal in front of him, calling anyone he knew that might be able to help them locate Jim Miller. Caleb had been unusually quiet since Sam took off, watching John work for less than five minutes before going into the town for coffee. Dean didn't point out the coffee maker sitting innocuously in the corner of the room. He understood the other man's need to _do something_, to feel useful.

Sam's cell phone had been off the last seventeen times he'd tried it, and Dean had left a range of voicemail messages, both angry yelling and desperate pleading. Finally he'd thrown his own across the room, gaining a tiny measure of satisfaction when it hit the wall with a thunk and fell to the floor.

God, it was all his fault. He shouldn't have yelled at Sam, he should have been more understanding, more sympathetic. Less argumentative. Why the hell did he have to bring up Jim Miller's drinking? That was the reason, the cause of Sam's great escape. Or maybe it was because he insisted Sam didn't have to see his father? Maybe Sam found it condescending, thought Dean was trying to baby him?

Dean spun on his heel and strode the length of the room. He had it down to a fine art, could pace with his eyes closed if necessary. Six steps up, turn, six steps down, turn.

Why the hell didn't he take down Stephen's number when they were there? Dean was half-tempted to suggest they go to Stephen's house. But retracing his steps would take days, and with the luck he was having, they'd arrive only to find out Sam was on the other side of the country.

"Son, sit down. Wearing a hole in the carpet isn't helping anyone." John's gruff voice broke into his self-recrimination. Dean looked up to see his dad looking even more exhausted than the night before. It always took him by surprise to realise John Winchester was actually just as human as anyone else. That he was fallible. Left over hero-worship from his childhood still insisted that his dad was the strongest man in the world, always right, never beaten. Seeing the man again after eight years had highlighted the permanent weariness adding lines to John's face.

"Dad, we have to find him." Dean couldn't help saying.

"I know, son, we will." John stood, placing a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. "But remember, Sam's not a child. He knows how to take care of himself." His father obviously meant it as a comfort. Dean nodded and tried to smile, not voicing the secret whispers in the back of his mind. _What if he never comes back?_

* * *

Sam reached Maine early the next morning, driving through the night. He was yawning, big jaw-cracking yawns that had the passers-by, mostly old ladies with tiny dogs, frowning at his rudeness. He stopped outside a Starbucks to refuel; black coffee and a croissant that cost more than he could afford. But the wireless internet connection alone was worth the money and he took Dean's laptop into the shop with him, feeling both grateful that he had it and guilty that he'd stolen yet another of Dean's possessions.

After fifteen minutes surfing the local news websites, he concluded that Stephen had been right; nothing supernatural was going on in this town. So then what was his father doing here?

Sam yawned again, the noise drawing the disapproving attention of the businessman sitting at the next table. He picked at the remains of his croissant, breaking it into crumbs on the plate. Jim Miller was holed up in a motel ten minutes' drive away. Reluctantly Sam packed up the laptop and made his way back to the Impala.

He drove past the motel three times before managing to work up the courage to pull into the lot.

* * *

Dean decided he hated his father's truck. There was only room up front for two, so he found himself crammed in the tiny backseat while Caleb flashed half-sympathetic and half-gloating grins at him.

John had managed to locate someone who'd seen Jim Miller a month ago, passing on the brief mention that the man was considering stopping in Maine for a couple of weeks. Apparently Sam's father hadn't been doing much actual hunting in the last few months, and the hunter that John had talked to was only too willing to discuss Jim's extensive proclivity for alcohol. It made sense, Dean thought, that Jim wouldn't be able to take on jobs anymore. With Sam gone, there was no one to follow his orders, get their hands dirty with the hard parts.

Dean gritted his teeth as the truck slowed in a traffic jam. The day was clear and bright and the sun was at just the right angle to hit him directly in the eyes. He was exhausted; tossing and turning all night in the motel room he was meant to be sharing with Sam, in the too-big and too-empty bed.

A headache was developing in his temples. Dean wasn't surprised; with the amount of stress he'd been dealing with in the last few days, it was a wonder he wasn't haemorrhaging from the eyes. He just wanted Sam, preferably in his arms. When all this was over and Sam was safe with him again, Dean promised himself, they'd hide out in a cheap motel room for a month, the do-not-disturb sign hanging from the doorknob at all times and cell phones off. The job would go on without them.

He wouldn't allow himself to consider the possibility that Sam wouldn't be coming back with him.

The traffic was slowly itching its way forward. Dean breathed in heavily, pressing his forehead to the window. It felt cool, good against his burning skin.

Sam would be fine. The kid had survived sixteen years of his life with Jim Miller. He would be fine. _As long as he doesn't scratch my damn car, or I'll kick his ass myself_.

* * *

Jim Miller was in Room sixteen. Sam sat outside on the hood of the Impala, staring at the closed door.

It seemed impossible to believe that his father was behind that thin painted plywood surface. That Sam was less than twenty feet from the man who'd raised him. For some reason he'd always held the abstract belief that if he couldn't see Jim, then the man was hundreds of miles away, inconsequential. It didn't matter what he was doing or who he was with, as long as he was _away_. He stared intently at the door again, as if he could somehow see through it if he tried hard enough. Hell, maybe he would discover some as-yet unknown psychic power to see through things.

The Impala's engine was cooling in soft ticks beneath him, and he stroked gentle fingers over the curves of the hood. It was reassuring, almost as good as having Dean himself there. Sam had almost been afraid that the car wouldn't work for him, that it would sense that he wasn't Dean and stall every time he stopped at a junction or something. The way Dean talked about his car, she was a living being. _If she is_, Sam thought vaguely, _she must like me a whole lot to put up with being stolen away from Dean_. He stroked the paintwork again.

Clouds were spreading rapidly across the brilliant sky above him, obscuring the sun. Sam chewed on his lip. Maybe it was a sign.

Finally he let out a long breath and made himself get up. He hadn't stolen from Dean, betrayed everyone and driven all this way just to sit outside.

Taking slow and deliberate steps, Sam made it to the peeling red door. He raised a fist, his stomach frantically knotting and unknotting itself, and knocked loudly.

"Who'sit?" Jim Miller's voice was slurred and barely audible. Sam bit back on the urge to turn and run, forcing his words out loudly.

"It's Sam."

There was silence for a long moment, then a sudden heavy thud. The door was thrown open wide and Sam was confronted with his father for the first time in six months.

* * *

Despite Dean's vehement protests, John pulled into a tiny roadside diner to pick up an early lunch. The waitress was all over them as soon as they set foot inside the door, flicking her bleached hair and smiling over-glossy lips at them. She must have been over forty, but somehow she'd squeezed herself into a mini skirt and low cut top, adding stiletto heels to the classy ensemble.

Surprisingly she bypassed Dean and Caleb completely, focusing her dubious attentions on John. His dad looked uncomfortable, sitting at the far end of the table and burying his face in the menu as soon as the waitress brought them over. Dean considered leaning over and telling his dad it serves him right for insisting they stop, but the feeling was soon overtaken by amused sympathy as the waitress – "Call me Stacey" – came running over with their coffees, and in her eagerness managed to land the whole tray in John's lap. Opposite Dean in the booth, Caleb was also finding it hard to stifle his amusement.

John shot them both dark looks as Stacey 'helped' him to the men's room, one hand sneaking its way lower on his back. John's muffled yelp as the hand reached its target was cut short as the door swung closed, Stacey obviously making herself at home in the men's room.

"Now, that's something you don't see everyday." Caleb said, his eyes crinkled. "Shame we don't have more time for John to get to know his new friend."

Dean laughed, feeling a little of the despair lift from his chest as he did. Caleb grinned brightly at him across the table, and it was almost like Dean could imagine Sam sitting beside him. He looked down at his menu to disguise the sudden ache.

"Dean." Caleb's serious tone made him meet the older man's eyes. "I-I just wanna say, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For, y'know. Not stopping Sam. Not getting' through to him, I guess." Caleb looked at the tabletop, his grin replaced by a frown.

"Caleb, it's not your fault. Seriously, dude. Sam's…Sam's got his own ideas about how things should be done, especially when it comes to his dad." Dean laughed bitterly. "And no matter what I or anyone else tells him, he can't get it in his head that he doesn't have to do it all by himself."

"S'not his fault, though. That he's like that, I mean."

Dean sighed, folding his arms on the tabletop like he was praying. "Yeah, I know. It's-it's just hard, y'know? Sometimes we're watching TV, or sitting in a bar, or driving to the next gig, and Sam's happy and messing around, and then suddenly something will make him shut up and-and shrink away, like he's trying to disappear. And I don't know what to do."

Caleb reached a hand across the table, resting it gently on Dean's arm. "Well, I'd say just being there's enough. Kid knows you're there for him, knows you love him."

"Yeah, I guess." Dean didn't look up.

Heavy footfalls indicated John's return to the table, complete with angry scowl and Stacey hanging off his arm. Dean suppressed his smile.

* * *

Jim just stood there for long moments, staring emotionlessly. Sam couldn't make himself keep eye contact, his gaze flickering to his feet before he could stop it. It occurred to him that maybe he should have brought a weapon of some kind. Not that he actually thought he could use it against his own father, no matter what the other man did to him.

"Well? What the fuck d'you want?" Jim's sharp words made him visibly start and he hated himself for showing weakness.

"I…Sir, can we talk?"

Jim spat out a laugh. "You tracked me down 'cause you wanna talk?"

"It's important." Sam said. His entire body felt twitchy, and he really didn't want to go into that room alone with his father. It would be like walking into a tiger's den. But this was what he'd come here to do, and he _was _going to do it. No matter what.

Jim didn't move from the doorway and Sam forced himself to look up, to get his first real look at his father.

The shock of what he saw nearly knocked him to the floor.

Jim had always been wiry, but the presence he'd exuded was that of a much larger man. People had been wary of getting too close, the restrained and unpredictable energy keeping them at arm's length, especially when he was drunk. But now, _now _he looked hollowed out somehow, gaunt and empty. Like the endless supply of rage that powered him had run dry in the months Sam had been gone.

"Important. Sure." Jim said, a sneer on his face that looked more like a formality than an actual expression. The default mode for dealing with unwanted and unloved sons. But his father stepped to one side, allowing Sam to sidle into the room.

It was dark, the curtains pulled, but the smell of alcohol that was ubiquitous with Jim Miller dampened the air. As his eyes adjusted, Sam could see the piles of dirty clothes, the bed sheets strewn across a stained carpet. The endless piles of bottles and cans in the corner. It took him right back to childhood, to the countless motel rooms that were decorated in almost exactly the same way. Jim didn't take any interest in Sam's nostalgia, staring in his direction with a dead expression.

"So what d'you want." Jim said, sounding like he couldn't care less.

Sam took a breath, regretting it as the stink filled his chest. "I want the Colt you have. The one that can kill anything."

Jim's eyes finally met his with a spark of life.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter, I really do appreciate it, it's almost as good as being paid to do this! Hope you guys like this chapter as much as I liked writing it ;) Next update should be on Sunday…

Chapter 18

Jim hadn't made a move toward Sam since he had made his proclamation that he was here for the Colt. The fire that lit his father's eyes for a second had cooled to icy contemplation and he surveyed Sam through half-closed and hooded gaze. It made Sam feel vaguely petrified, like he was an insect pinned to a board, his life in the hands of an uncaring and passionless observer.

He was very aware of the fact that Jim stood in front of his only exit.

Sam dropped his gaze, fixating on the beer-stained carpet between his sneakers. Jim wasn't speaking and it made him itch in his skin, acutely aware of the picture of submission he was presenting.

Jim took a sudden step in his direction and Sam took two back before he realised he was going to move. He looked up at Jim through his hair, dismay and shame written across his face in red blush. His father's face lifted in a smirk, cruel amusement in his eyes.

"Well now." The grin didn't leave his face, nor did he take his eyes from Sam's. He walked slowly to the side of the bed, reaching for a bag Sam hadn't noticed in his initial assessment of the room. He bent to pick it up, his movements deliberately slow, mocking Sam for his fear.

He pulled out a rectangular wooden box, opening it to display its contents. "This Colt?"

Sam's eyes widened a fraction. Although he _knew _his father had the Colt, had held it and cleaned it in his own hands, suddenly discovering it was of so much importance had elevated it to almost a mythical object in his mind. He'd been half-terrified that he was mistaken, that the gun Jim Miller had wasn't the right one. Or that he'd arrive here, face off with his father, and then find out Jim had gotten rid of it. But it was here, and real, and close enough to touch. Sam felt a momentary swell of elation.

Which was soon wiped away when the box was swung toward his face. Sam stumbled back, only catching a glancing blow across his still-sore jaw. He winced and pulled his limbs in close, hating himself for cowering. Jim's amused face had vanished like it was never there, replaced with something almost like the fury he'd held for Sam before he'd left. Not the same, Sam noted with bemused distance. Not the unadulterated violence Jim had been able to conjure up at the drop of a hat. This was different. It was almost an effort for Jim to pull on the anger now, like he was acting a part, following the stage directions with less than the required enthusiasm.

"How fuckin' _dare _you!" Jim was still menacing though, even without the burning rage, still an intimidation that Sam could never stand up to. His father took another step toward him, Jim's free hand catching in Sam's shirt. Jim pulled him up until they were eye level, close enough for him to taste the beer on his breath. "You come in here, tellin' _me_ what to do! You think I'm gonna give this to you? You really think I'm gonna hand it over 'cause you asked? You're a _shit_, boy, a fuckin' worthless shit!"

His father's fist rose and fell, throwing him back to childhood. Sam felt the impact resonate like the ringing of a bell, a thousand punches over a thousand little things, all adding up to one.

"Why do you hate me?" He asked, his voice a whisper that grew in strength as he continued. "Is it because I was conceived by the demon? Or because I was conceived by my mother?"

Jim froze, his fist in the air ready for another punch.

Sam stood in place for a second longer, a statue in a scene of violence, before wrenching his shirt out of Jim's grip. He staggered backward, falling against a chest of heavy drawers. His spine shot through with sharp pain.

His father met his eyes, the antagonism that was almost perfunctory disappearing in an instant. The room seemed suddenly airless, a void outside of reality where he would be forever trapped with Jim Miller, doing the same dance over and over. Going through the motions.

"I see you've learned some things in your absence." Jim said, his words once again cool and considered. It was one of the most disturbing things about his father, Sam thought. He could change colours quicker than a chameleon, and the anticipation of the Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation was almost worse than the violence itself.

Sam screwed his hands into fists, clenching and unclenching around the wooden top of the chest of drawers behind him. His fingernails made tiny scratching noises on the varnish.

"Do you think I hate you?" Jim asked calmly, straightening up. He turned and walked easily across the room to the small table in front of the window. There was a twenty-six can crate of beer on top. Jim put down the box containing the Colt, replacing it in his hand with a full can. He flipped the tab, taking a long drought.

Sam croaked out an answer, his mouth dry. "Yes."

Jim took another drink, seeming to ponder his answer. Shivers were chasing themselves in cascades along Sam's body and he had the desperate urge to curl into a ball and cry. He stubbornly pushed it away.

"I don't hate you." Jim said in the same conversational tone. Sam's head jolted up, staring at his father. He knew every emotion was scrawling across his face right then, a display that hid nothing, but he couldn't have stopped them if he tried his hardest.

Jim met his eyes, a steady gaze of polite strangers. "I don't care about you enough to hate you."

The words fell flat into the dead silence of the room, a dull statement that wiped away any lingering façade of hope.

Sam couldn't swallow. Couldn't exhale, couldn't blink, couldn't unclench his hands from the chest of drawers. The grip was sending fire through the nerves in his fingers, his muscles clamped so tight that tremors were running up his arms.

Because it didn't hurt like it was supposed to, like it _should_. The admission would have brought him to tears, made him feel like his heart was being cut out of his chest in shreds. Before.

The room was silent around him, brown walls and brown floors, stains on the ceiling by the bathroom door. The kind of room Sam had grown up believing was home. Jim's leather bag, the same one he'd used when Sam travelled with him, lay on the crumpled bed sheets. A younger version of himself would be sitting silently in the corner right now, arms around knees. Eyes wide and alert, always alert. And Jim would be in the same position he stood in now; at the table, drinking a beer.

He wasn't loved. He wasn't important enough to be hated, not anymore. Not by Jim Miller. And it filled him with a kind of tragic melancholy, a deep and heartfelt regret, not enough pain behind it to be classified as a proper emotion. Jim watched him dispassionately, cold eyes unwavering. Sam could feel them on him even as he lost his grip on the chest of drawers and fell, landing heavily on both knees.

Jim didn't care. But, Sam discovered with a disbelief that bordered on hysterics, neither did he.

Confusion rioted colourfully through his brain. Shock; because it suddenly all seemed so unimportant. The demon, how he was conceived, what his father thought of him, none of it mattered. It _had _been important, he realised. A day ago, a week ago, ever since Stephen had let all those long-held secrets slip. It had been important to him because it had been important to Jim. A condition of his father's love. But now, knowing that his father couldn't even work up the energy to hate him, Sam couldn't remember why any of it should make a difference. It hadn't made a difference to Dean.

He had _changed_. He wasn't the same as that frightened and begging boy that craved approval and love. Not anymore.

Through the blur of colours and shapes in Sam's vision, he could see Jim finish the can of beer, looking at it with the same expression he had been aiming at his son moments ago. The can was tossed aside and another picked up in its place.

Sam wrapped arms around himself, barely aware of what he was doing. He _ached_, all over. The throb in his face from where his father hit him seemed to have spread to his entire body, carried through his blood like a virus. He could remember the days when his father would beat him for hours on end, make him sit outside in torrential rain or eat nothing but the leftover scraps Jim left behind. And he'd been passive, taken it all as if it was what he deserved.

"Are you gonna sit there all day?" The faint hint of contempt in Jim's voice had Sam scrubbing at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt. He tried to push himself to his feet, fell, and tried again. His hand caught on to the edge of the chest of drawers and Sam pulled himself upright.

"Are you gonna give me the Colt?" The words came out sounding strong and Sam was surprised he could give the illusion of steadiness after the upheaval of his entire perspective. He looked at his father, the man who created him, and couldn't see any of those childish fantasies a younger Sam had wound lovingly around him. In their place was an aging, half-drunk man with nothing to live for anymore. And _that _hurt, more than anything else. To realise that in another world his father could have been so different.

Jim didn't seem to notice Sam's epiphany. He slouched against the table, bringing the beer can to his lips like it was the only thing he knew how to do. "And why th'fuck should I do that, huh? What the hell you ever done for me, boy?"

_I gave you something to live for_, Sam thought, _I gave you a reason to get up in the morning. Even if it was only to beat me like a dog_. "I hunted for you. Every time you told me to go somewhere, hunt something, I did it. I never complained. I _did my job_, and now I'm asking you to help me do it again."

Jim met his eyes, vague curiosity behind the glaze of beer fug already overtaking him. "And how is that my business? You _left_, you're nothin' to do with me anymore. Why should I care?"

"Because I want it to kill the demon that killed my mother."

The statement hung heavy in the air, and Sam waited for the spark of life to re-enter Jim's eyes. But there was nothing, no anger, no fire. Jim just sagged a little, the tabletop creaking ominously at his back.

"Did you hear me? I said I'm gonna kill the thing that killed my mom. _Your wife_." Jim scowled at him, his arms crossing at his chest. The beer can was held protectively in one hand.

"Yeah, I heard! What, you want me to throw you a parade? You're goin' after it, great. S'nothing to me if you get yourself killed."

Sam blinked, his already on-edge nerves straining tighter. Nothing about this was going the way he'd expected it to and it felt like he was two steps behind, racing to put the words and the thought processes behind them together so they made sense. The smell of beer made his head spin.

"So…so you don't even care? Not even about that?"

Jim snorted through his nose, turning to face Sam with a snarl on his face. "Don't you say I don't care! I cared! I cared for sixteen fuckin' years, and look what it got me! It got me _you_." He spat the last word out, punctuating it with a smack on the tabletop. "She's dead, and she ain't never comin' back. So you kill it, so fuckin' what. It don't make a difference."

"It makes a difference to the other people it could kill." Sam said quietly, almost to himself. Except Jim heard, and _that _was finally enough to bring the life back to his face.

He strode across the room to Sam, his body suddenly bigger somehow, like the burst of energy swelled him to his old size again. Sam tried to duck away but Jim's hand was too quick, catching him by the arm.

"Other people! What the fuck do I care about _other people_! Damn them all to hell, serve 'em right! No one was there to help her, why the hell should anyone help _them_!" Jim swung him around, slamming his back into the chest of drawers again. Sam gritted his teeth against the yelp that wanted to escape at the contact.

The side of Jim's hand caught Sam across the face. It knocked him sideways, distracting him from the fingers that clenched in his hair, jerking his head back. His scalp burned. A white-knuckled fist smashed into his nose, appearing too suddenly for Sam to try and avoid it. He felt the hot crawl of blood on his upper lip, smeared around his mouth by Jim's punch.

"Damn you to fuckin' hell, boy, see if I care!" When Jim's grip released him Sam was almost too dazed to notice, his upper body practically bent backward on the chest of drawers. He lay still, panting furiously for a second and wondering if Jim would come back. If the other man had decided he cared enough for hate after all. But there was nothing, and Sam pushed himself upright, his head dazed and feeling like he'd been spinning in circles for hours.

Jim was sitting on the bed, his head bowed and his back to Sam. He didn't move as Sam cautiously regained his balance, trying not to make any noise. Wary, like he was in a shark tank. His heart pounded triple-time and his breath shot in loud rasps through his blood-clogged nose.

"Take it." Jim's voice sounded dry and dead. Defeated.

"What?" Sam took two tentative steps toward his father, his head still ringing and his breath rushing in gasps.

"I said take it. The gun. Take it, and I hope both you and that sonovabitch burn."

Sam let out a slow breath, poised on the opposite side of the bed to his father. He hesitated for a second before going to the table and carefully picking up the wooden box, the Colt inside.

He looked back at the hunched-over form of his father with his face clouded in shadows. Sam walked away.

* * *

He got as far as the gas station two blocks over before he had to stop.

Braking with a screech, the tires leaving unforgiving black marks on the concrete, Sam practically threw himself from the Impala before his coffee and croissant could make their reappearance all over Dean's upholstery. A bald man wearing a too-tight Spurs shirt gave him a dirty look as he gassed up his station wagon, but Sam couldn't bring himself to care. He hadn't wiped the blood from his face and it crusted around his nose like some kind of bizarre moustache.

His father…

God, he couldn't even begin to work through his thoughts. Everything, _everything _he'd been worrying over, over-thinking and obsessing about, it was all being thrown about in his head like a washing machine in the middle of a spin cycle. Sam felt like he'd been awake for a week.

He stayed on his knees beside the Impala, staring blankly at the puddle of vomit in front of him like it held all the answers. Above him, the sky was dark and heavy, navy blue clouds that looked low enough for him to touch if he stood on tiptoes.

He had the Colt. He didn't have his father's love, but he had the Colt, and that made it okay because…

Because what? Because Dean would love him now instead, love him for getting the gun? That wasn't right. Sam blinked three times in quick succession.

Ever since he could remember, Sam had been desperate for the unconditional love of his father. Hoping, secretly, that one day Jim might turn around and _see_ him. And then he'd be pulled into a hug, tighter than anything he could remember, and Jim would look at him with soft eyes and say…

God, he'd been so stupid. Sam felt laughter welling up in his chest, making his whole body twitch uncontrollably. He recognised it now, his terrible buried longing for his father's love. Even with Dean he'd still been searching for a way that would make Jim want him, be proud of him.

This hadn't been about getting the gun at all. It had been about finding his dad, about finally being able to tell Jim Miller those words Sam had always believed would make everything right. _I can kill the thing that killed your wife, I can do it for you, finally. I can do everything, anything you want me to. I'm good enough._

Except he'd finally, _finally_, gotten to the point his whole life had been geared toward, had said the immortal words…and it hadn't made the slightest difference. Not to his father, and not to him. Because who wanted a father whose love had to be _earned_

anyway?

The sky grumbled, a low frustrated growl that echoed everything Sam was feeling. He leaned back, letting himself fall awkwardly against the car. The forecourt of the gas station was empty now, no one to be seen. Sam felt distantly glad. His epiphany-slash-breakdown had been a long time in coming, and he didn't particularly want observers.

His back hurt in a vague sort of ache that Sam imagined would get worse when the bruise set in. His jaw felt slightly swollen, would probably darken to a bruise as well. His nose was still bleeding steadily but not broken. Cataloguing injuries in his mind had been something he'd started doing years back, something to keep his mind off of their origins when he couldn't sleep through the pain. Methodical, clinical, he'd made himself detached from them, as if he were a doctor examining a patient. Now he closed his eyes and let his head loll against the Impala. Thought about the numerous punches and kicks and bloody messes that had been created on his body over the years. Thought about his father delivering all of them.

Rain started to fall, soft droplets wetting his upturned face. He closed his eyes and let the cold water soak into his clothes, soothe his sore body. This would be the last time, he vowed silently, his hands and jaw clenched. The last time anyone would be allowed to use him like this. Never again.

He pulled his legs up, hugging his knees to his suddenly aching chest. Salty stinging tears ran tracks down his already-wet face, mingling with the blood to drip marbled red off his nose and chin.

* * *

"Alright, it's left at this junction."

"No, it's the next one down."

"I'm tellin' you, old man, it's this one."

"Don't call me old. And I know the way, and you're wrong."

Dean tuned in to John and Caleb's light-hearted argument, feeling a tug in his chest as he remembered similar exchanges with Sam. God, he hoped that kid was okay.

"John, the _sign_ says it's this junction, if you don't wanna believe me, believe the _sign_."

"Sign's wrong. I've been to Maine more times 'n I can count, and it's _always _been the next one down."

Dean sighed loudly, drawing both men's attention. "Maybe I should walk. Probably be quicker, and I wouldn't have to put up with you two nagging at each other. Couple of old ladies, the both of you." That earned him indignant looks on both sides.

Privately he felt comforted by the idle chat. The last twenty-four hours had been some of the most nerve-wracking of Dean's life, and that was saying something. He'd worked with teenagers, after all. But he couldn't deny the comfort his father's presence had brought. It had been a surprise at first, not something he'd remembered in the eight years they'd been apart. But faint memories had drifted back as the day went on, memories of a ten-year-old Dean playing thumb wars with John while they waited for the waitress to bring over their dinner. Memories of his dad swinging him up in his arms when he wasn't expecting it, making him giggle uncontrollably when he was set on John's broad shoulders. Chocolate ice-cream for dinner on Dean's birthday, and he'd eaten so much he'd spent the rest of the night throwing up while John rubbed his back and chuckled good-naturedly. He'd _missed _his dad, and he hadn't even realised it until now.

The traffic ahead was slowing to a halt and John let the truck idle, turning in his seat to face Dean. "Don't worry, son. We'll get there. Sam'll be fine."

Dean smiled, feeling suddenly so _glad _that his dad was here. "Yeah. He will be."

Storm cloud were gathering on the horizon ahead of them and Dean wondered if it was an omen before reminding himself that he didn't believe in things like that. The air was still stiflingly hot and the rain would be a welcome break.

Dean's phone trilled out a KISS tune in his pocket.

He dug it out, contorting uncomfortably in the back seat in his haste. Both John and Caleb had gone silent in the front of the truck, watching him with set faces and disguised hope in their eyes.

"Sam? Sammy?"

There was a long pause on the other end, long enough to tie Dean's stomach in knots. And then in a cracked voice; "Dean, can I come home now? Please?"


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you all so much for all your reviews, I'm so glad you guys liked the last chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sammy's realisation was a long time coming, so I hope I did it justice… The next chapter should be up on Friday :) Someone also asked if there was going to be a sequel after this story, I'm not sure if there'll be a full story to follow this, but I definitely have some one-shots to come…there are a few chapters left, at the moment I'm thinking there'll be about four or five and an epilogue, but don't hold me to that! It may well go over depending on how long it takes me to tie everything up. Plus I'm planning on going back over this and Full Moon once I've finished, just to redo some of the dodgy parts and re-edit. Anyway, on to the chapter…

Chapter 19

_Dean's coming_, Sam thought with a sense of awe, like it was a miracle. _Dean's coming to find me._

He was still seated on the hard concrete by the side of the gas station, rain falling in a steady stream that left his clothes sopping. It dribbled down his collar, making the thin skin at the back of his neck itch before it was soaked into his hoodie. It only occurred to him a few minutes ago to get inside the car, but by then he was already drenched. He wouldn't want to ruin Dean's upholstery.

Sam rested his chin on his chest, his head feeling too full of thoughts for his neck to support for long periods of time. He was vaguely surprised to notice the front of his hoodie had been stained with blood from his nose, leaving long streaks the colour of rust in the material. He sniffed wetly, not sure whether he was inhaling rain or blood or snot and not much caring.

_Dean's coming_, he repeated in his head. The sky had darkened with rain and thick clouds, rumbles of thunder getting angrier above him. He looked up at a flash of lightning, glad to have the distraction of a free light show. _Just have to wait, Dean'll be here soon. _

* * *

"Drive _faster_."

"Dean, I'm going as fast as I can without getting pulled over. We'll get there, son."

Dean bit his lip hard, leaning forward over the divide between the two front seats in John's truck. His hands were on either seat, the vinyl squeaking against his fingernails.

"S'okay. He said he was fine, didn't he?" Caleb said. The statement was obviously meant to comfort, but Caleb's own need for reassurance slipped out in his dark eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, he said he was fine." Caleb nodded, a grin on his lips like Dean saying the words made it solid. Dean waited until he turned back to face the road before closing his eyes and letting himself think of all the other times Sam had insisted he was _fine_.

There was a break in the heavy traffic and John took it, the truck ducking and diving between the four-by-fours and BMWs like an unwieldy ballet dancer. Dean kept his eyes straight ahead, watching the storm clouds approaching. Sam would be fine. Sam _had _to be fine.

He didn't want to think about what Jim Miller might have done to the kid, replaying their brief phone conversation in his head over and over. Sam had sounded out of it, dazed and unsure like he was drunk. Or like he'd had his brains knocked halfway out of his skull.

Dean chewed on his lip, his teeth breaking the thin skin. If Jim had done anything to Sam…

God, he wished Sam had never gone off by himself. Never left the safety of Dean's sight.

* * *

The truck pulled into the deserted gas station. Before John could step on the brake, Dean was shoving his way free, lunging over Caleb to get to the passenger door. The tail end of the Impala was visible, the main body hidden by the heavy concrete building. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

"Sam! Sammy?" Dean bellowed, loud enough to attract the bemused gaze of the station attendant even behind the thick glass separating him from the forecourt. Dean ignored him, ignored the sounds of his father and Caleb climbing out of the truck on his heels.

For a second there was no response, long enough for Dean's heart to drop to his feet and his stomach to churn in anxiety. And then…

"Dean?" Sam's voice, weak and shaky, coming from the Impala. Dean broke into a run but before he could reach his car, Sam appeared.

Trembling like a newborn colt and unsteady on his long legs, Sam kept one hand on the trunk of the Impala as if to keep himself upright. The kid was whitewash pale, the blood on his face a blackened contrast. He met Dean's eyes and immediately looked away, his hair falling forward.

"Oh god." Dean stopped dead. "Sam?"

The rage hit him like a physical blow, like he'd run head-first into a solid wall. Jim Miller had done this to Sam, had made him bleed and made him cry and undone all the hard work Dean had done over the last six months.

Before he could take another step, say anything, Sam started speaking in a small voice. "Dean. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. The car's fine, I didn't do anything to it, not even a scratch. And I didn't take anything else. I'm so sorry." Sam met his eyes and this time it was Dean who wanted to cry. The kid was _scared_, terrified under the imploring gaze. Scared of _him_.

"Sammy, no." Dean had no idea how he managed it, how he gathered enough co-ordination to make his legs work, but somehow he had Sam smushed up against his chest. He forgot about his father, about Caleb and the stupid gaping gas station attendant. It didn't matter, none of it. The only thing that mattered was making Sam _okay_.

Dean buried his nose in Sam's dirty hair, rubbing his face against the back of Sam's neck to convince himself that Sam was really here, really alive and warm. Broken, but here.

He squeezed the kid tight, hearing Sam's tiny gasp. It took a few seconds for Sam's arms to encircle Dean's waist hesitantly, his fingers digging into the shirt at the small of Dean's back. He didn't realise he was speaking until the words reached his ears, a soft jumble of "it'sokay,it'sokaynowSammy,it'sokay."

Sam sniffed, the sound moist like he had a heavy cold. Dean remembered the blood, pulling away enough to cup the kid's jaw gently and turn his face toward him.

Sam's eyes were big and pleading, and Dean wanted to tell him to stop it, he could have anything he wanted, just _stop_ making that face.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"Don't you apologise Sammy, don't you _ever_." Dean heard himself say vehemently. "_God_, you scared me half to death. Don't you do that again, I mean it. You stay with me, okay?"

Sam blinked like Dean was talking in a foreign language and Dean almost wanted to hit him himself. Make him realise how important he was, how much he _meant_.

Behind them, Caleb coughed into a fist and Dean turned with his jaw gritted, ready to lay into the other man for breaking into their muddled reunion. He wasn't _ready_, goddamnit, he hadn't said everything, hadn't made Sam understand. Hadn't held him close enough yet. But Caleb coughed again and Sam pulled away from Dean's unyielding grasp.

"I, uh. I got the Colt." Sam picked up a wooden rectangular box Dean hadn't noticed him place on the trunk of the Impala. The kid held it out to John like a puppy fetching a stick, desperate to be told he was a good boy. Both John and Caleb took a step forward, hands reaching eagerly for it. The sight of the box fed the fire of anger inside Dean.

"Fuck the damn gun! Why the hell can't any of you see, _it wasn't worth it_!" Dean said, his words filling the air around the four of them. "You got the shit beaten out of you for a _gun_! Am I the only one who sees how _insane _that is?"

Sam took a step away from Dean, his forehead creasing. "We-we needed it…"

"Dean…" John started, his face darkening.

"No! We _didn't _need it, not at that price!" Dean could feel his fingernails driving into the palms of his hands, almost relished the pain it brought. The gas station attendant was shrinking away inside the building, his face alarmed.

"Dean, that's enough!" John's hand fell on Dean's shoulder. "It's done now, no point arguing. We have the Colt. Now let's go book into a motel and fix Sam up."

Dean shook his head, a bitter laugh spilling from his lips and making him feel sick. "Great. So everything worked out great for you guys. Everyone gets what they want. You get the gun, Jim Miller gets to beat the crap out of his son and Sam gets a bloody nose."

He could see Sam swaying on the spot, his eyes trained on his feet.

"It's not that bad." Sam's quiet words hit Dean harder than anything.

"What?"

"It's not that bad, just…just some blood." Sam repeated without meeting Dean's eyes.

"Christ." Dean breathed the word out. "Okay, that's it. That's enough." He spun on his heel, yanking his shoulder from John's hold. The Impala, its sleek black lines and shining chrome awaited him.

"Dean, where are you going?" John called from behind him. He could hear his dad's heavy footfalls and sped up to escape him.

"I'm going to show Jim Miller how it feels to be on the other end of a fist."

He had time to feel the hard drill of rain on his face for a second as he reached the Impala, the reassuringly familiar smooth of the paint beneath his palm. And then he was being thrown back against the driver's door and bodily restrained as John Winchester caught up with him.

John's voice was a low growl, not loud enough to carry to where Sam was struggling against Caleb's hands. "Dean, listen to me. You want revenge; I understand. Believe me, I do. But there's a seventeen year-old boy over there who needs you. Now stop _causing a scene _and go look after him."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to deny what John was saying. The white-hot anger inside him was screaming, forcing him forward. He wanted to beat Jim Miller until his fists bled.

"Dean. Please." John brought his mind back to the present and he opened his eyes. Looked past John to Sam, who was still weakly pulling against Caleb despite the fact that his legs were perilously close to dropping him on his ass.

Dean took a heavy breath, letting it whistle out between his teeth. "Okay. Fine. Let's…let's get a room somewhere. We can argue tomorrow."

* * *

Sam barely remembered the ride to the motel, sitting beside Dean in the Impala as he drove like nothing had happened. Dean hadn't said much, keeping his head fixed forward on the road. But Sam had seen him glancing over when Dean thought he wasn't watching and it went some way toward settling the turbulence in his head. It felt good, like being wrapped in fleecy blankets. Soothing.

He'd stayed alert long enough to direct Dean to a motel on the opposite side of town to where his father was staying.

Now he was sitting on the toilet seat, letting Dean fuss over his face and waiting for the tightness to fade from around the older man's mouth. He wanted to speak, to tell Dean it was okay, he'd worked it all out, but truthfully he _hadn't _worked it out yet. His mind was still slowly chewing over the events, catching up in it's own time. Jim didn't love or hate him, and Sam was okay with that. It was…it was something. Sam knew it was a big something, and he knew Dean would want to hear about it. Knew it would wipe away some of the other man's tension. But Dean deserved to hear it from Sam when Sam was ready, when he knew exactly what it all meant.

The motel they'd stopped at was nicer than the scummy place his father was currently residing in. The walls were papered a calming beige that helped Sam's head and the bed sheets actually looked like they'd been washed after the previous occupants had vacated.

Dean wiped the blood from his nose with tiny strokes like he was afraid Sam might shatter if he pressed too hard.

When he was finished Sam didn't give him a chance to speak.

Their mouths met with a bump, Dean stumbling backward at the unexpected kiss and hitting the wall behind him. Sam followed, his exhaustion pushed aside. He let his fingers twist in the soft and worn hem of Dean's shirt, playing there without any intent. A huff of breath escaped Dean's mouth, brushing across Sam's lips as he moved closer.

Dean's arms didn't move to stop him or pull him closer, hanging limply at his sides like he'd forgotten they were there. "Sammy…"

Sam cut off whatever he was about to say, taking the words into his own mouth and letting his tongue slide gentle-soft between Dean's teeth. He licked at the other man's tongue until it responded hesitantly, one hand coming up to stroke Sam's hair off his forehead.

They kissed like it was a slow dance, no hurry and no destination. Sam could taste the bittersweet tang of coffee at the back of Dean's mouth, working his tongue over the wet there until the taste was erased.

He pulled away, turning his head slightly to rest against Dean's temple. Dean was still, his eyes closed and the one hand carefully cradling the back of Sam's head. Sam waited, feeling the puffs of air slipping over the tip of his nose every time Dean exhaled.

Eventually Dean's eyes opened. He turned his head to press their foreheads together briefly and then followed with a tiny kiss between Sam's eyes.

"Don't do that again, okay?"

Sam smiled and let the safe feeling wash over him. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

John turned off the exhaust and climbed out of the truck, hitting the already banged up Cadillac parked next to it with the driver's door. His jaw clenched and he swung the door open again, relishing the cracking sound as it connected with the other car, leaving a visible dent. Not that the owner of this car would care what state it was in.

John remembered seeing the same car when it was almost new, shiny black and polished. Remembered his one and only meeting with the owner.

He walked across the motel parking lot until he reached the door and raised a fist, banging loud enough to wake the occupant.

No doubt Jim Miller was asleep, despite the early hour.

When the door finally opened, the first thing John noticed was the heavy stink of beer. The second was the man in unwashed clothes, day-old stubble lining his cheeks and dark lines circling his eyes.

"Do I know you?" The words slurred together as Jim spoke and he leant on the door like it was a lifeline.

"My name's Winchester. Remember me?"

Jim blinked stupidly. "Should I?"

John pushed his way into the room, ignoring Jim's drunken and feeble protests. The inside didn't look much better than the man himself, the smell stronger and mixed with stale sweat.

"We met once, long time ago now. You asked me what killed your wife." The casual sentence had Jim's mouth twisting.

"Don't you talk 'bout my wife! Had 'nough people talkin' shit today!"

"Yeah, I heard." John turned to face the other man, his anger held deep below the surface of his purposefully bland expression.

"What'd you want?" Jim mumbled, his own anger diverted as he began the search for another can in amongst the mess of empties.

"I want to talk about Sam."

Jim froze in place, the empty beer can in one hand crushing under his fingers. He spun around whip-fast, keeping his balance easily despite the beer inside him.

"What the fuck d'you know 'bout that boy?"

"I know enough." John said calmly. "I'm here to give you some friendly advice. Don't you ever go anywhere near him again. Don't come after him, don't contact him, don't even _think_ about him. As far as you're concerned, you have no son." He walked leisurely to the door without looking at Jim. "Of course, as far as you're concerned, you never had one to begin with, did you?"

John stepped into the relatively fresh air of the parking lot, making his way toward his truck.

A hand fell on his arm and he acted on instinct, bringing out the knife at his waistband and pressing it to where his attacker's throat should be. Except apparently Jim retained his own hunting reflexes, twisting away like he anticipated the move and blocking John's arm. John felt momentarily saddened. In a different situation, this man could have been a great hunter. Could have been a good friend. Hell, this man could have been _him_.

"I know you now." Jim snarled, his face contorted like an angry wolf. "I remember. You were the one."

John brought a fist up, catching Jim square in the nose. The other man stumbled back, bringing up his own fist. John caught it before it could connect.

"You were the one who told me about my wife. About my _son_. You were the one that told me he wasn't mine." Jim swung his other arm around as he said it, knocking the knife from John's hand. It skittered on the blacktop and slid under a green Volkswagon Golf, out of reach. John dismissed it, Jim's words breaking through his carefully erected wall of placidity to the boiling rage underneath. He wouldn't let himself acknowledge the heavy guilt, not yet. He pressed Jim into the car, using his forearm to choke the other man.

"I told you about the possession, about the conception, I _didn't _tell you to beat the life out of an innocent boy because of some misguided notion you had!" John roared.

"You told me…"

"I told you what you wanted to know. _You _were the one who twisted it into something you wanted to hear, just so you could have something to punish! Don't you think we all wanted revenge? We _lost our wives_!"

"That boy…"

"That boy _is your son_!"

Jim shoved his way free, stepping back and putting space between them. John stared at him, knowing his face was painted with the disgust he felt for this man and not much caring. It didn't look like Jim cared either, the smaller man cuffing at the blood dripping from his nose and spitting on the blacktop between them.

"That boy is nothing. You have him, if he means that much to you. I don't care anymore." Jim turned and shambled back to the motel room and his next can of cheap beer, both John and Sam already a fuzzy memory to be drunk away.

John stared after him. The blame hit him hard, like a fist to the stomach. The back of his fingers were stained with Jim's blood, but he felt no satisfaction at the sight.

He turned back to his truck, vowing anew to kill that damn sonovabitch demon that had wrecked so many lives.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

As always, thank you to everyone who took the time to review, I really do appreciate it :) Unfortunately I do have some bad news; I'm not gonna be around much for the next two weeks, so I'm not going to set a date for when the next chapter will be up because I have no idea when I'll be able to sit down to write it, let alone post it! But don't worry, I will try to get at least one chapter up at some point, and everything shall go back to normal once I'm back with regular internet access… Anyway, hope you all enjoy the chapter, and please review, it makes me happy!

Chapter 20

Dean woke with a start. The room around him was dark and cold, and for a second he felt the tendrils of the dream pulling him back. _Sammy…_

He sat up quickly, his heart pounding.

And felt the still hand slipping down his bare chest. He looked down at the bed around him. Sam was asleep on his side, one arm gentle across Dean's waist. The punch he'd taken to the nose had darkened, plum bruise lines circling his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. But his lips were twitching in a sweet smile, and Dean smiled back even though the kid couldn't see it.

Sam was okay. Sam was _safe_. Dean let himself relax, the dark of the motel room no longer threatening. He lay back down, careful not to disturb the sleeping kid.

Sam made a tiny noise and rolled closer to him, nuzzling into Dean's collarbone. His forehead creased in a momentary frown as his sore nose pressed at the skin and Dean gently shifted him to a more comfortable position.

Now Sam was in no immediate danger, everything taken care of for the time being, Dean allowed himself to breathe freely. He hadn't realised how much tension he'd been coiling in his body, the worry lines that had carved themselves into his face. He had been so scared for Sam.

The only time Dean could ever remember feeling fear like that was before, when his father would go hunting by himself and not check in for hours, days. Dean would sit patiently in an anonymous motel room, the TV on constantly so he could give himself the illusion of not being alone. Sam's disappearance had brought back that same type of fear; the desperately avoided feeling that he would never see the kid again.

Dean wondered for a second what it meant. Then Sam snuffled against his neck and his thoughts were wiped away by a big stupid grin that Dean couldn't seem to hide.

Sam was woken by a sharp ray of morning sunlight sneaking in through the crack in between the curtains and falling across his face. He blinked bleary eyes and rolled his head away, his mind trying to catch up and take in his surroundings.

Everything from the past few days floated back to him and he suppressed a wince at having to deal with it all over again. He rolled over and met Dean's eyes, the other man lying close enough for Sam to feel his breath whispering across his cheekbones.

"Hey." The other man's lips quirked in a gentle smile and Sam felt himself soften into Dean's embrace.

"Hi."

"How's the nose?"

Sam reached up, prodding at his face experimentally. "'S'okay I think. Doesn't hurt too bad."

Dean's smile widened. "Well, you've got some pretty face paints at the moment." He stroked a forefinger down the bridge to the tip of Sam's nose.

A blush spread across Sam's face at Dean's attentions and he smiled back.

But apparently he couldn't just let himself enjoy the moment, and he found the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Are you still mad about the Colt?"

Dean closed his eyes, a pained look tightening his face before he pushed it away forcibly. "Sammy, I wasn't…It wasn't like that. I just…I just don't get why you always have to do it all yourself. I'm here. I'll help."

Sam rolled onto his back, staring up at the off-white ceiling and its spider web of cracked paint. "I know you will. But I had to do this. I had to…to face him, one last time. Just to know."

"Know what?" Dean propped himself up on an elbow beside Sam, leaning over to meet his eyes. He didn't look angry, his eyes half-shut like he was trying to think through a difficult puzzle.

Sam looked away, inexplicably ashamed. "To…to make sure that..." His hands clenched into fists, tugging at the floral bed sheets. "That I wouldn't regret leaving him."

"What?" Dean blinked furiously.

Sam sat up, turning toward him. "Dean, it's…" He took a long breath. "I was afraid that, without me around, he might…"

"Might what? Might drink himself to death?" Dean said, his voice rising. "So what if he does? Sam, you owe that man _nothing_!"

The other man stood, bed sheets falling to the floor in a crumpled mess. Before he could lock himself in the bathroom, Sam caught his arm. "Dean, wait. I didn't…" He pressed his eyes closed, letting his head drop forward. He continued in a small voice. "I just…I guess I was hoping that, if I could see him again, he might have…changed. Stupid, huh?"

Sam didn't look up at Dean, but he could feel the sudden angry tension draining from the air around them. The mattress sagged beside him and Dean's arm wrapped over his shoulders. "Ah, Sammy. Kid, I'm sorry."

The sympathy in Dean's voice wrenched something in Sam's chest and he pasted on a parody of a smile for the other man's benefit. "It's okay. I knew he wouldn't change. I just…had to make sure."

Dean was quiet for a moment. "Sam, do you…do you _want _to go back to your dad?"

"What? No!" Sam answered, his head spinning to face Dean. "No, I hated it with him. But I still…I guess I just wanted his approval or something."

"Sammy…" Dean's hand squeezed at the back of his neck.

He let himself take comfort in it for a second before standing quickly, Dean's arm falling away from his shoulders. "I'm gonna take a shower. Your dad probably wants to meet up, talk about what we're gonna do next."

"Sam…"

"I'm fine. Really." Sam heard the often-repeated lie as he spoke it, biting his lip and turning back to Dean. No more lying, not to Dean. "I'm just…working it out. In my head." He tried a smile; hoped it worked better than the last one. "I'll be okay."

* * *

Dean knocked on his father's motel room door, feeling Sam's presence like a shadow behind him. He didn't understand the compulsion the kid had, always striving to make his own father want him. The words from earlier echoed in his head. _I hoped he would change… _People like Jim Miller didn't change. They were ruthless, focused on their goal. They didn't care who might get caught in the crossfire. Sam deserved better.

Caleb opened the door, a smile growing on his face as he caught sight of Sam.

"Hey kiddo, you're still here." Dean inwardly winced at the man's words, hoping Sam wouldn't shrink away at them. But to his surprise, a self-deprecating grin spread across the kid's lips.

"Yeah, decided to stick around this time."

"Glad to see it." Caleb said, patting Sam on the back as they entered the room.

They'd only been in the motel one night, but from the explosion of books and print-outs on every surface, take away boxes of Chinese food littering the table, anyone would think John had been camped out here for weeks.

"Dad's really gone to town with the demon hunting." Dean observed idly, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice.

Caleb nodded. "You know your daddy. Been up half the night looking for new leads on the demon, now we got the Colt to kill it with." He grinned at Sam again, acknowledging him with a nod. "He's gone for breakfast, should be back soon."

"So what've we got?" Dean asked.

"Not much right now. Seems pretty quiet out there. But John thinks the demon's plannin' something soon."

"Yeah? How does he know?"

"Well, he doesn't. But all these recent attacks on kids, he thinks there's gonna be a few more before the demon disappears again."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to shut out the clamouring thoughts. His dad didn't really have a clue. They were going on less than nothing, and all because John Winchester wanted the demon dead.

"Well we should get researching." Sam's voice broke in on his attempt at zen calm. Dean breathed out, hoping it didn't sound too much like a long-suffering sigh.

* * *

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam said, quiet so that John and Caleb wouldn't hear. The other two men were in the corner of the motel room, examining the Colt for perhaps the fiftieth time this morning.

Dean dropped the heavy book he was holding, letting the spine bang on the table. "I'm fine, Sam, why?"

"You just…every time we talk about going after this demon, you look like there's a thousand things you'd rather be doing."

Dean looked at him, eyes unreadable. "Well, yeah. Killing a demon isn't exactly my idea of a fun time."

Sam blinked, looking down at the table. "No, I mean, it's like you're indulging a little kid. Like you don't really _want _the demon dead, but you're going along with it. I just don't get why? I mean," he blushed, "the demon did…you know, kill your mom."

A flash of anger lit up Dean's eyes, quickly suppressed by that resigned look the other man had been wearing all morning. "Yeah, it did. And I really don't want it to kill any more of my family, thanks."

"Your dad can take care of himself, you know that."

"Yeah, he can. But I wasn't just talking about him." Now Dean blushed as he realised what he'd said, looking away as he picked up the book again and seemed to immerse himself in its pages.

Sam blinked. _Oh_. He stared at Dean a moment longer, but the other man resolutely didn't look up.

* * *

"Okay boys. I think we found something." John announced loudly. Dean looked up from the book spread across his lap, his back clicking painfully as he shifted on the bed. They'd been researching for hours, none of them with any real idea of what they were looking for. Sam was scrunched up on the floor beside the bed, his head inches from Dean's hand. Dean had found himself toying with the long strands of hair spilling onto the bed more than once, and he hoped neither his father or Caleb had noticed. _That _was a revelation Dean could do without having to deal with.

"What've we got?" Dean asked. John stood, pushing his chair back from the little table in the corner. The Colt rested in its box beside him. Dean hadn't seen his father let it out of reach all morning, like now he had it, he wasn't going to let it slip away again. Dean caught his fingers sneaking their way into Sam's hair again and thought that maybe he knew how his dad felt.

"Summoning ritual, to call the demon." John held up an old leather-bound book, its cover scuffed and scarred. "We can bring it right to us."

Dean blinked a few times. "Are you serious?"

John glanced over at him, his face calm. "Yes. We can get it here and take it out."

"Easy as that, right?" Dean said, pushing himself up from the bed. "Because its not gonna be prepared for anyone summoning it."

Caleb straightened from his slouch on the other bed. "John, maybe Dean's right on this."

John shook his head. "If we can summon it and trap it here, we can shoot it with the gun."

"Yeah, but John, it's gonna have the advantage of knowing we're here and up to something. Better to do what we've been doing, go after it when it's goin' for some kid and take it by surprise."

"If we summon it, we can be ready, we can have exorcisms and bindings on hand if it goes wrong. And it knows we're tracking it, hell, it probably knows we're all _here_." John insisted.

Dean shook his head, his face tightening. "No, dad. We can't risk it. If it knows we're here, then we prepare. We should wait for it to make the first move."

"Dean…"

"Dad, I mean it." Dean wondered absently where the sudden ability to stand up to his previously impenetrable father came from. "We wait, or we don't do this at all."

John's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He put the heavy book down on the table carefully and gave a brusque nod in Dean's direction. "Fine. We wait."

Dean didn't miss how his father's fingers lingered on the cover of the book.

* * *

Sam felt Dean's finger tips tugging at his hair again and suppressed a happy smile. He tilted his head back on the mattress a little to give the other man better access, letting his eyes drift half-shut. Dean didn't realise he was doing it, Sam was pretty sure. Like it was a reflex action, a reassurance that Sam was there, and okay. He felt a faint trace of guilt touch him, knew it was his own fault for disappearing on Dean, but he pushed the feelings away and let himself enjoy the moment of contact.

His family. Dean was everything he had, more than he'd ever expected. And it felt good, felt like how a family was _supposed _to feel. Like someone cared about him.

Sam let his eyes drift over Caleb, sat on the bed staring at a handful of print-outs with a blank look on his face. Sam was pretty sure the other man stopped seeing them about an hour back. As he watched, the corner of Caleb's mouth twitched upward like he was remembering something amusing. John was still focused on the five open books spread around him on the table, one hand screwing in his hair. His mouth was set in a determined expression and his eyes were darting back and forth across lines of text.

He wondered what he'd be doing right now if he was still with Jim. Probably curled up in the corner of a motel room, keeping quiet. Or enduring some inventive form of torture. Sam pushed it all away, focusing on Dean's fingers massaging his head instead.

"You boys want to take a break and get some lunch?" John broke the silence suddenly, apparently enough for Dean to realise that his hand had migrated to Sam's hair yet again. Sam's head was yanked backward as the other man's finger got caught in a knot of hair. There was a frantic second of Dean trying to discreetly untangle himself without drawing his dad's attention, Sam's scalp protesting the treatment.

"Yeah, yeah okay." Dean stuttered. Sam glanced up, watching in amusement as the other man's face rapidly reddened. John was watching him quizzically, his head tilted to one side.

"Dean? Are you alright?"

"Fine, I'm fine." Dean said, ducking away. "We'll, ah, go pick up some food. C'mon Sam."

Dean hustled him outside.

"Are you okay? God, I didn't hurt you, did I?" His hands encircled Sam's head, tugging it forward and stroking through little patches.

"I'm fine, really." Sam tried to hide his smile.

"Sorry." Dean's subsiding blush flared up again and he dropped his hands with a wide-eyed glance back at the closed motel room door separating them from John. He turned quickly and started walking across the lot toward the diner at the end of the street. Sam hurried to keep up with him.

"Hey, don't worry. I don't think your dad saw anything."

Dean gave him a little smile. "Yeah, I know. Just, I don't really want him to find out. Like that, I mean."

"Dean, even if he did see, I doubt he's gonna jump straight to the conclusion that we're…you know…" Sam ducked his head.

"Together?"

"Yeah." Sam peeked through his hair, trying to gauge Dean's expression. They'd never discussed out loud what they did in the privacy of motel rooms, never classified it. It made him feel warm deep in his belly to know he hadn't wrecked this fragile thing by running away. "Together."

They stood waiting for their order in the mom-and-pops diner, Dean scowling at the abundance of kitschy décor, Sam smiling and scrunching his nose up at a blond-haired boy in a highchair.

"Sam," Dean began, startling him out of his face-pulling contest with the toddler.

"Yeah?"

"About…about my dad." Dean looked at his feet as he said it, rubbing at the back of his neck like he always did when he was uncomfortable. "Do you think - that summoning ritual, do you think he'll try it?"

"What? No, he knows how stupid that'd be. Even Caleb said so."

"Yeah, but people do stupid things when they think they have to." Sam heard the pointed remark and worked to keep the apology off his face. "And my dad, he's always been set on killing this demon. There's-there's not much he _wouldn't _do to kill it." Dean met his eyes and Sam couldn't remember the other man ever looking so young and unsure before.

"Dean, he wouldn't do it, not by himself."

Dean didn't look convinced. At that moment the pretty waitress called their order, interrupting whatever he was going to say.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Well, I managed to write this despite having very little time! I haven't gone through it as thoroughly as I'd like, so if you see any spelling mistakes or weird sentences please point them out and I'll fix them :) Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I enjoyed hearing your comments on it and I hope you'll review again! I'm still not sure when I'll be able to get the next chapter out so I won't set myself a date. Hopefully it'll be sometime next week, so look out for it!

Chapter 21

Dean sat outside his father's motel room, watching the sun set through a haze of clouds and rising exhaust fumes. He kind of wished for a cigarette, just to have something to do with his hands.

The four of them had been researching for hours, going over every possible book on demonology on John's insistence 'just to be sure', and looking into every recent unexplained house fire. It had made his eyes cross. Knowing their goal was so close seemed to bring new fire into his dad's eyes. The book with the summoning ritual still rested on the table beside John, and it bothered Dean like an itch he couldn't reach to scratch.

Caleb seemed to be feeling the same way, the shaven-headed man making his excuses and practically running out of the door an hour previous on the flimsy pretence of getting more food. Like Dean and Sam hadn't brought back half the diner's supply of sandwiches earlier. But John had barely looked up at the other man's exit, his eyes scanning some year-old news report while his fingers traced along a scrawled note in his journal.

Conversely, the tedious work didn't seem to bother Sam. Dean thought maybe the kid was used to it after living with Jim Miller for so long. God knows _he _wouldn't have trusted the man's research enough to stake his life on it during a hunt.

The Impala sat sleek and gleaming in front of the motel room and Dean took the time to run his eyes over his car. Sam hadn't lied; not a scratch to be found on the paintwork anywhere. Maybe Dean would consider letting Sam drive every now and then. Providing _he_ was in the car as well this time.

He was half-considering going for a drive to clear his head; an old habit from his teaching days that seemed a lifetime ago now, when Caleb wandered back. The other man's boots crunched heavily on the gravel and his hands were pushed deep into his jacket pockets. As Dean suspected, he hadn't brought any food back with him.

"Hey, man. They still at it in there?"

Dean offered a tired grin. "Yep. You'd think those books were porn magazines, the way they're looking at them."

Caleb dropped down onto the concrete step beside Dean, looking straight ahead into the sunset. The sky around the horizon had turned a deep rose pink. Dean would say it was pretty, but the threat it would pose to his masculinity meant the comment was better off going unsaid.

"Well, 'spose we better get back to it. Those books aren't gonna put me to sleep unless I read 'em." Caleb winked, slapping Dean on the back as he went to get up.

Before he could stand, Dean put a hand out.

"Caleb, about…about my dad." Dean blushed, the words gluing together on his tongue. Having meaningful conversations apparently didn't get easier with practise, and it still felt like a betrayal to talk about his dad behind the man's back. He softened the accusation, feeling it slip out easier. "Look, I know I haven't been around for a while, he probably does things differently now or something, but he seems kinda…reckless."

Caleb pursed his lips, lowering himself back down to the step. The other man seemed to understand what Dean was asking and didn't bother with his own version of politeness. "Well, buddy, I guess you could say that. But you gotta understand, even though it's been over twenty years since your mom, your dad's still out for blood. And findin' this Colt, after so long, well that's like a gift from heaven for him. He doesn't expect to you understand, not really."

"But I lost mom too!" Dean said, glancing back at the closed motel door. "She was taken from me too, and I'm not ready to go out and sacrifice myself just to kill the damn thing! I can understand _Sam's _anger; he's just a kid, but dad should…"

"Should know better? He probably does. But it don't change the fact that your daddy's been gunnin' for this for a long time. And," Caleb looked down at his hands,

"I'm guessin' your momma's death was a lot more personal to him than he's let on. To anyone." Dean looked at him in confusion.

Caleb stood, pulling himself upright with a theatrical groan, as if he couldn't run five miles without breaking a sweat should the occasion call for it. He looked down at Dean with a soft compassion that the other man rarely displayed. "Your daddy and Sam, they've got something in common. They both feel guilt over this demon. Maybe that's why they want it dead so bad."

Dean blinked. "Guilt? What? What've they got to feel _guilty _about?"

Caleb looked out over the parking lot, the dying sun painting his face glowing peach. He looked almost ethereal, old beyond his years. His eyes tracked a black Jeep as it passed the motel, turning off at the end of the street and vanishing. "Well, I don't know about your daddy's reasons; I doubt anyone knows those except for John Winchester. But," he glanced at Dean without meeting his eyes "I'd say Sammy-boy holds himself to blame for his own momma. That boy's been beaten down for a long time and he needs to find a purpose behind it. His mom dying like that was the start of everything for Jim Miller, and his dad's the reason he's been pretty much crapped on for most of his life."

Dean suppressed the cold shock before it could take hold and forced himself to digest Caleb's words. He hadn't thought of it like that. He _should _have, he should know everything that goes on with Sam, otherwise how can he protect the kid?

"Maybe you should stop thinkin' of him as a kid." Caleb said gently before Dean realised he'd spoken out loud. "Sam's been taking care of himself for a long time. He doesn't need you to protect him. He needs you to be his partner." The other man nodded once, like he was pleased with himself. He turned to go back into the motel room.

Dean opened his mouth to argue. Shut it again a second later and sat silent as the door closed behind him. He stared out over the gravel, trailing his eyes along the multitudes of tire-tracks like the whole thing was a half-assed version of a Buddhist meditation garden. The long shadow of the Impala turned the dusty surface into a dramatic landscape of dips and valleys.

He remembered the first hunt he'd been on with Sam, back in Elmstead. Dean had told Sam to think of him as a partner, not as a teacher. To trust him with his life, and Sam had done it without a second thought.

* * *

Sam looked up as Dean re-entered the room, the older man's brow creased in thought. He resumed his seat on the bed without a word, picking up the heavy book resting on the pillow and settling it on his lap. After a few seconds of staring at him, it became apparent that Dean wasn't going to bestow a smile on Sam, wasn't even going to look his way. The frown was still on his face and his eyes skittered across the page as if he was actually _reading_ it and not discreetly picking off the leather binding like he'd been doing for the past hour. Sam repressed the desire to pout and whine like a little girl deprived of attention.

He'd heard the indistinct murmurs of conversation through the thin motel room door, enough to identify Dean and Caleb as the speakers but not enough to hear clearly. Sam wondered what had been said that would cause Dean to look like his brain was about to burst from too many thoughts. John had been too involved in his own books to pay any attention.

Sam's legs were cramping from sitting on the cold hard floor and he shifted, trying to find a better position that didn't rest on his bruised spine. He'd pulled his tee shirt up and inspected it in the bathroom mirror while Dean was getting some air. Falling against the chest of drawers and then being shoved into it again in his father's room had left a dark line slicing across the small of his back, just low enough to be aggravated when he tried to lean against something. He thought of climbing onto the bed with Dean, quickly dismissing the idea with a shade of a grin as he considered the look of utter terror that would appear on Dean's face. It would probably be accompanied by a hot blush and quick glances to make sure neither John or Caleb noticed. Sam wondered what Dean would say if he told him Caleb had already figured out Sam's feelings toward him.

He let out a heavy sigh that sounded loud in the dead quiet of the room, reaching for another book. His back brushed against the bed frame and he grunted, shifting uncomfortably. And then Dean's fingers tugged at the tips of his hair, burrowing deeper to scratch at his scalp like he was a puppy. Sam decided the pain wasn't that bad after all.

* * *

His dad was still buried beneath a mountain of paper, and it didn't look to Dean like he was planning on digging his way free any time soon.

Caleb's advice still resonated in his head. _He needs you to be his partner_. Sam needed more than a partner. _Wanted _more than a friend. The kid was shifting uncomfortably on the floor and Dean pushed his book aside.

"Hey kid, wanna take a break?"

Sam looked up at him, a smile crinkling the edges of eyes that looked older than his face. "Yeah, okay."

"Dad, Sam 'n' me are gonna go out for a bit, stretch our legs. We'll be back in a while." Caleb glanced over as Dean spoke, giving him an approving nod. John just waved a hand in their direction and Dean decided to interpret that as a 'sure son, do whatever you want'.

The air outside the room was cool and fresh on Dean's face, washing his skin clean of the mustiness from the old books. He tugged his leather jacket around him, shivering a little.

Sam stood next to him, watching him with a timid grin as he zipped up the front of his own ubiquitous hoodie, today's selection navy blue.

"So where we going?"

"Dunno. Thought maybe we could check out that bar down the road. Maybe I can finally teach you how to score off a pool game." Dean looked over with his own hesitant smile. The atmosphere between them felt charged somehow, a new kind of electricity. It made Dean nervous and jittery like he hadn't felt since he was a kid and discovering girls were good for more than just kissing.

"Okay."

Sam seemed to feel it too, or maybe he was just reacting to Dean's own uncharacteristic shyness.

They walked in silence, side by side with hands in their pockets. Dean's arm brushed Sam's accidentally; a second later he did it again, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. The kid didn't say anything, but the brilliant grin that Dean had been seeing more and more of lately passed across his face.

A couple walked past them travelling in the opposite direction, holding hands and whispering to each other, smiles on both their faces. The woman pushed a strand of hair away from her face, looking coyly up at her partner. Dean sidestepped them, a hand automatically reaching for Sam. It hovered, not quite touching the small of his back, just close enough that Dean could feel the heat of Sam's skin beneath the worn softness of his hoodie.

The music and happy drunken noise of the bar welcomed them in from the other end of the street, neon signs advertising Corona beer and Budweiser in the windows. Dean pushed the door open, holding it for Sam.

"Wanna beer?" Dean asked reflexively. He thought of Jim Miller and panicked for a second, afraid the stupid question would ruin this, whatever _this _was. "I won't tell 'em you're underage." He added lightly, winking and inwardly hoping.

But Sam just nodded. "Sure. Whatever you're having."

"Okay." Dean exhaled, relieved.

The bar was filled with people, mostly older. A couple of waitresses that looked a few years past their prime flitted among them with trays held at shoulder height, red-lipped smiles for all the men. Apparently this was one of the few places in Maine that catered to the less polished clientele, the truck drivers and grizzled loners who wanted a heavy drink to put them to sleep at night. Dean was glad. It felt almost like a haven to him, a place he knew inside and out despite never having been to this particular bar before. He could charm the forty-something behind the bar or the guy slouched on a stool in front of it into telling him whatever he wanted to know, could find out the entire history of the town within a night if he needed to.

There were two dusty pool tables at the back of the room, dark stains visible on the green felt even from this distance. Dean nodded to the one not in use. "Go set up the table, Sammy, I'll bring the drinks over."

Sam walked across the room and Dean followed him with his eyes, taking in the assured confidence of his stride. The kid didn't strut or do anything to draw attention to himself, but all the same, only someone very stupid or very drunk would try to mess with him.

Dean's thoughts drifted back to that werewolf hunt again. Remembering the first time he saw Sam for who he really was, a curved blade in one hand that could dance through the air faster than Dean could see. He wondered why he sometimes forgot that Sam was a weapon in his own right.

Dean shook his head a little and went to buy the drinks.

* * *

Sam pushed a coin into the table, hearing the rhythmic thump of the balls dropping. On the stereo speakers mounted above the bar Johnny Cash sang loudly about a boy named Sue, accompanied by the twang of his guitar.

He picked up the two cues resting diagonally across the table and racked up the balls, glancing over at Dean by the bar. The other man was handing a ten-dollar note to the over-bleached woman behind the bar, lip twitched in a half-grin. He looked over and met Sam's eyes, his smile softening.

Dean ambled over to the table and handed him one of the bottles, leaning back against the table with one hand in his jacket pocket.

"Nice place. Reminds me of home." He said, lips curving as he raised the bottle.

Sam snorted. "Yeah. Funny that. I swear most normal people live in actual _houses_."

"I know, it's crazy! Where's the excitement in that?" He leaned in close, his voice low and confidential. "Doris behind the bar told me they've already had to break up one fight tonight. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Sam blinked at him. "Her name's Doris?"

"Na. 'Least I don't think so. I named her."

Sam grinned at him, placing his own beer on the edge of the pool table. "I'm sure she'd appreciate it." He picked up a cue and tossed the other to Dean, who caught it in one hand. "We gonna play?"

Dean only smiled back.

* * *

An hour, three games and two more beers each later, Dean gave up the pretence that he was doing anything other than checking out Sam's ass as the kid bent over the table to take a shot. Unused to drinking, Sam's shots went increasingly off the mark, the cue fumbling between his fingers.

His face was flushed and dimpled and Dean couldn't stop looking.

" 'm I stripes?" Sam blinked up at Dean, looking ridiculously cute with his hair hanging in his face.

"Huh?"

"The balls. Which ones 're mine again?"

"Well, I'd have to check." Dean said smarmily before he could catch himself. Sam giggled like a girl and then slapped a hand over his mouth as if he hadn't meant to. Dean manfully held in his own giggle. "Yeah, you're stripes kid."

"Kay." Sam spun back to the table, wavering slightly before balancing himself with a hand on the edge. He lined up a shot, missed the cue ball on the first try, and then sank two of Dean's balls, one in each corner pocket.

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. "Wow. Y'know, if you meant to do that, I'd have been impressed."

Sam apparently decided to take his teasing as a compliment and flashed a bright alcohol-flavoured grin at him.

" 's'it my shot again?"

"Nope Sammy, my turn now."

Dean lazily knocked two balls into pockets before looking over at Sam. Who was leaning on his cue with one hip cocked like he was about to start a pole dance around it and taking long swallows of beer, his throat exposed and shining with light sweat. The tip of Dean's stick knocked the cue ball into a pocket.

Dean blinked stupidly at the table, his mind still stuck on the image of Sam.

Who popped up beside him, chiming into his thoughts happily. "My go now?"

"Yeah, your go." Dean said absently, his head dizzy.

Seven expertly sunk balls later and Dean was watching Sam with narrowed eyes and a grudgingly impressed smile pulling at his lips. "You played me, didn't you?"

Sam looked up from his shot with a guilty grin, the eight-ball perfectly in position to be tapped into the middle pocket. "Well, you said you were gonna teach me how to scam pool." He knocked the ball into the pocket easy as breathing. "I just…omitted to tell you I leant to play at twelve. Stephen taught me." He flashed a wink. "Everyone bets money against the drunk high school kid."

Dean let out a deep laugh, draining the last of his beer. Around them the room was busy, but neither of them noticed. "You wanna play again? Now I know what I'm up against I'll give you a proper game."

"Na." Sam boosted himself up on the table beside Dean, his legs swinging off the edge. "Can we just sit for a while?"

"Sure. You want another beer?"

"I'm good."

Dean wondered what his dad and Caleb were doing; whether they were still giving themselves headaches over dusty books. Then he decided it didn't matter. Not for tonight.

A drunk guy wearing a florescent hunting hat stumbled against a waitress in the middle of the room. She dropped the tray of beer she was carrying, glasses smashing on the already-sticky floor and the alcohol spilling down the thick neck of a huge trucker. The trucker shoved his chair back and turned to face florescent-hat guy with a snarl, nostrils flared like an enraged bull. Dean picked up Sam's beer and took a sip, relaxing against the table to watch the two men being thrown out by the waitress, her hands dragging them along by their collars.

Sam tried to take his bottle back, his fingers brushing Dean's. Childishly Dean refused to let go, pulling it back until they were both laughing, hands white-knuckled around the glass bottle. The impromptu tug-of-war dragged Dean to face Sam, and it was the simplest thing in the world to step in between his spread legs and press their mouths together.

The beer bottle disappeared somewhere and Dean found himself with one hand buried in Sam's hair and the other low on his back, keeping their bodies close enough to feel hard planes of muscle through the layers of cloth. Sam tilted his head, lapping at Dean's mouth with his tongue in tiny maddening swipes until Dean groaned and pressed in deeper. It felt like falling through blue sky and clouds, like he'd never need anything more than this, just this.

Sam's hands were clenched in Dean's shirt below the curve of his rib cage, his thighs tensed either side of Dean's hips. It was like being wrapped in Sam, both exhilarating and soothing at the same time. If he were in a less public place, Dean thought distantly, he might be tempted to lower Sam to the green felt table behind him, climb on top so he was straddling the other man. A tiny moan from Sam and Dean was ready to do just that.

Except Sam chose that moment to twist his mouth away from Dean's, panting softly. Sam rested his forehead against his, eyes heavy and dark. "Shouldn't be doing this here." Contrary to his words, the kid's fingers somehow crept beneath Dean's shirt, teasing inches of skin below the waistband of his boxers.

Dean's own hands were doing their own exploring, one slipping along the line of Sam's neck and the other tracing curlicues onto the skin of his back. Sam gasped as Dean pressed a little harder down his spine, feeling the hot bruise he'd inspected in the motel bathroom the night before. It burned beneath Dean's palm like it would scald a matching pattern onto his own skin.

"I know. Don't care." Dean mumbled back, catching Sam's mouth again. The other of Sam's hands disengaged from its grip on his shirt, skating up between their bodies to cup Dean's face. A thumb whispered across his cheekbone and Dean mindlessly leant into the touch, turning his face to kiss Sam's palm. When he looked over at Sam's face, he was hit by hot lust, like the room was on fire around him and he hadn't noticed. The kid's eyes were blown and almost completely black, pink blush high on his cheeks. His hair was even more of a mess than usual and Dean felt a vague sense of accomplishment at that; to know that everyone else could see how incredible Sam was but he was the only one allowed to _touch_. But it was his lips that undid Dean; red like cherries and wet from his kiss, the epitome of hedonism and debauchery.

It made his chest physically ache to look at Sam.

"Hey. Maybe we should get back to the motel." Sam said, the words puffs of air in the space between their lips. Dean nodded, pulling him close for a last messy kiss that lingered sweetly before forcing himself to let go and turn to face the room.

And stood frozen for a few seconds, the heat Sam had created momentarily quieted in his disbelief.

The men sitting at the few scattered tables were talking and laughing loudly together. The waitresses were still bustling around the room, carrying bottles and empty pint glasses back and forth. The lone men seated at the bar were taking long droughts of their drinks. No one had noticed the damn-near pornographic display he and Sam had just put on. He tried to stifle a laugh that burst out anyway, echoed as Sam stepped up beside him.

"Guess the beer here's really that good."

Dean moved his hand slightly, stroking fingers along the inside of Sam's wrist. "Guess so."

* * *

They wandered slowly back to the motel, the night air feeling good against Dean's face after the sweaty bar and the Sam-induced blood rush. Sam seemed content to stroll through the quiet streets by his side, deliberately brushing against him on every other step. The nervousness from earlier in the night had gone, faded into nothing and replaced by easy contentment. Dean couldn't remember the last time things seemed so simple.

"Dean?" Sam's voice broke the silence, echoing in the sleeping street.

"What's up?"

"At the risk of ruining the mood, I just need to tell you…my dad. I'm okay about it. About everything." Dean turned to face him. Sam's face held no hint of tension or deceit, just the same small smile he'd been wearing since stepping out of the bar. He regarded him for a second longer before nodding.

"Okay."


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

I'm back, and I bring a new update with me :) Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I'm glad you guys enjoyed the last chapter… I should be able to get back to my regular updates now for however many chapters are left, so look out for the next one on Friday…

Chapter 22

Dean was woken by a furious banging on the door of the motel room.

The sky was dark behind the drawn curtains and Sam was lying still beside him, his face calm and peaceful. One hand curled around Dean's collarbone, possessive even in sleep. He didn't stir, even as whoever was at the door banged harder.

Not wanting to disturb him, Dean slipped out from beneath his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it before letting it drop to the pillow beside Sam's face. The kid made a snuffling noise, his forehead creasing and his fingers flexing on the sheets.

Dean padded quietly to the door, not bothering to dress, and wrenched it open. "What?"

Caleb's white face greeted him on the other side, the dim light from the dirty bulb beside the door casting shadowy lines across his body. He looked up as Dean answered. "Your dad's gone. And he took the book with the summoning ritual with him."

* * *

The three of them met in the parking lot, the first hints of dawn touching the horizon above the sleeping motel. Sam scrubbed at his eyes with a fist. Apparently he was still enough of a lightweight for three beers to ache at his head. It made him think of the bar, and Dean's kisses, and he had to suppress a smile despite the current circumstances.

According to Caleb, John had stayed up most of the night researching. He'd barely moved from the rickety table, hunching over the books like he was searching for the Holy Grail. Caleb had fallen asleep with three books open on his lap, and when he woke a few hours later, John and the truck were gone.

"I didn't think he would, y'know? I never thought he'd actually do it, otherwise I'da kept a better eye on him." Caleb mumbled, his eyes aimed at the ground in front of Dean's feet. "I thought you'd talked him outta it the first time he brought it up."

Dean sighed heavily. His face was worn and exhausted. "It's okay, Caleb. I didn't seriously think he'd do it anyway. But," he straightened, and Sam could almost see the resolve spreading across his face like a blank mask, "he's not gonna get a chance to, not if we find him first."

Caleb's jaw tensed. "Yeah, well, I've thought of a few places he might go to do it, but this is a big town. Chances are, it's gonna take us a while to find him, and he's got god knows how much of a head start. If he was waitin' for me to fall asleep, then he's hours gone by now."

"Yeah, well, we have to try!" Dean burst, his fists clenching like he wanted to snap someone's neck.

"And we will. I'm just sayin'…" Caleb began.

"Well _don't_!" Dean whirled around, stalking toward the Impala like a pacing tiger.

"Dean…"

"Are we going or what?"

Caleb's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, we're going."

The rising sun brightened the sky in blades of gold and peach, light enough to paint the buildings around them in dusky shades that gleamed of an unrealistic perfection. Sam bit his lip, quietly resenting John for spoiling what should have been something special. Something between him and Dean.

The three men climbed into the car, Sam relinquishing his usual seat in the front to Caleb. Dean gave him a hurt look that he pettishly ignored.

"So where d'you think he'd go?" Sam broke the stifling silence hanging between Caleb and Dean as they drove across the sleeping town.

Caleb turned in the seat to face him. "There's a few places, like I said. He'd want to go somewhere with space; somewhere he wouldn't be interrupted or caught. He'd need more than one exit. There are a few abandoned buildings on the far side of town, I'm thinkin' we start there."

Sam looked over at Dean, driving with his head set stiffly forward. "Dean?" His only reply was a curt nod as he stamped down on the gas.

* * *

The streets were full of people, kids on their way to school and people in suits on their way to work. Cars piled up at junctions and the traffic moved at a slow crawl. Dean silently cursed them all.

Caleb had directed them to a block of disused warehouses, but there was no sign of John's presence anywhere. Apparently his dad was covering his tracks. They'd stopped off at the local occult store on the assumption that John would need supplies before attempting the ritual, but the pierced and tattooed woman behind the register said no one matching John's description had been there in the last few days.

Every place they tried was a bust. Dean's lower lip was chewed ragged, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Maybe we should split up." Sam suggested from the backseat. "We could cover more ground that way."

"And what if he left town?"

Sam met his eyes in the rear view mirror before speaking calmly. "Then we wouldn't find him in time anyway."

"Then why are we even bothering?" Dean snapped out.

"Dean, we're just trying to help." Caleb said, his eyes on the map spread across his lap. "We're as worried about John as you are."

Dean bit down on the impulse to retort. Caleb was right. But god, he could _kill_ his dad right now. Everything was working out last night. Sam had been so happy, and Dean loved that he had was able to make the kid smile like that, wanted to be spending the day sharing secretive grins and hidden touches. Thinking about _them_, together and both of them happy.

Instead he was hunting down John.

"Yeah, I know." He said on a sigh. "Okay, let's split up."

"Okay." Caleb waved the map. "If you take the car back across town, you can check out the places near the motel. Sam, you ask around the hospital and the places here, and I'll see if there's anywhere he might go around the houses and parks."

Dean pulled the car over to the side of the street, disrupting a group of kids holding armfuls of school books.

Caleb jumped out, giving Dean a small smile and a wave. Before Sam could climb out, Dean reached over the seat and caught his arm.

"Sammy, I'm sorry."

The kid smiled softly. "Hey, it's okay. You're worried about your dad."

"Yeah." He looked down. "I was kinda hoping this morning we could've…"

"There'll be other mornings." Sam squeezed his fingers quickly and flashed him a small but genuine grin.

"Yeah. Yeah, there will."

Sam walked away in the opposite direction Caleb had gone. Dean watched him for a moment, running his eyes over the defined muscles partially concealed by Sam's baggy clothing. Then he started up the Impala, swinging the car into a u-turn and heading back toward the motel.

* * *

Dean wanted to laugh. No, he wanted to hit something, preferably something that would try to hit back so that he could hit it again.

Three hours of driving around, his cell phone in one hand compulsively pressing redial while his stress levels rose to the stage where his blood seemed to be pulsing painfully around his skull. He stopped at the diner to pick up coffee before resuming the search, the same diner he and Sam bought sandwiches from. Paid the waitress and turned to leave, and there was John.

His dad was sitting in the booth furthest from the door, his back to the wide windows. He seemed immersed in his own mug of coffee, ignoring the raucous crowd of lunchtime buyers. The book with the summoning ritual was nowhere to be seen.

It was surreal. A tiny uplight on the wall beside John's booth lit up a picture of Roberto Clemente from the sixties, baseball uniform white and crisp, bat resting on one shoulder. The checkered blue and white tablecloth looked impossibly cheery, covering John's lap like it could disguise the aura of shadows and contemplation surrounding the man.

John didn't look up, even as Dean slid into the booth opposite him.

"Dad, what the hell do you think you're doing?" It was practically a whisper, spoken tersely through gritted teeth. "We've been fucking terrified."

His dad started like he'd been shot. He met Dean's eyes, his own narrowed and unreadable. "Dean. How'd you find me?"

"Dumb fucking luck. Answer the question. What the hell are you doing?"

John straightened in his seat, his hands slipping from the tabletop. "I was going to summon the demon." He said it in the same tone he'd give out orders, like it was an unquestionable fact.

"Yeah, we figured as much. Have you done it yet?"

John seemed to deflate a little. "No."

Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief. If his dad hadn't done it yet, then he had time to talk the older man out of it. Or knock him out and hog-tie him in the back of the Impala.

"Dad, we've been looking for you everywhere. Driving all over this goddamn town." Dean bit his tongue before he could start ranting. "_Why_, dad?"

"Dean…"

"_No_. What the hell _is_ it with this demon? God, first Sam, and now you disappearing! And for what? For this fucking demon!" Dean barely resisted banging his clenched fists on the tabletop. He took a breath and tried to contain the spitting red anger inside him. "God, it killed mom, and Sam's mom, and god knows who else's, and now it's ripping everything else apart as well!"

John sighed heavily, his eyes falling on his untouched mug of coffee. One hand reached over to toy with the handle. "Dean, son, it's more complicated than that. There are…things, that you don't understand."

"So tell me! Let me in on the big secret! I want to know!" Dean didn't realise he'd raised his voice until John caught his wrist.

The other patrons of the diner were staring, forks stopped halfway to their mouths. In the background, Bonnie Tyler sang a muted version of Total Eclipse To The Heart. Dean uncramped his left hand with deliberate effort.

"Look, son," John began, his voice barely a whisper "this isn't the place…"

"It's never the goddamn place!" Dean hissed. "You never tell me anything, you never did! Why the hell do you think I left in the first place, dad? I was _supposed_ to be your partner! You trained me to have your back! But how was I supposed to do that if I only knew half the story?"

John didn't outwardly react, his eyes trained on the coffee in front of him. The music changed to a bland instrumental of Phil Collins's Heaven.

Dean's cell phone vibrated in his front pocket, the tinny Metallica song disrupting eighties power ballad hour. His hand instinctively went to his pocket before he noticed the faint relief on John's face. Dean ended the call without answering, turning off his phone and placing both hands flat on the checkered tablecloth.

"We're gonna talk about this, dad. No interruptions. For once, we're gonna talk."

* * *

Sam looked at his cell, blinking at the 'ended call' on the screen.

"He not answering?" Caleb asked, skirting around a group of giggling teenage girls carrying shopping bags. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw them craning their necks around, staring at him and Caleb with flirty smiles and whispering frantically. He ignored the blush spreading across his cheekbones, and Caleb's amused grin at the sight of it.

"No, he hung up on me." Sam said, feeling a little insulted.

"Huh. Well maybe we should make our way back to the motel. John's obviously not around here."

"Yeah. D'you think he's actually gonna do it? Summon the demon?"

Caleb bit his lower lip. "I dunno. I hope he'd come to his senses, but he's pretty determined to end this."

"Yeah." Sam looked at the sidewalk. "I know how he feels."

* * *

John continued to poke at his coffee mug. Dean stared at the top of his head, wondering how hard he had to squint before he could read his father's thoughts. Saying they needed to talk was all well and good, he discovered, except he had no idea how to start the conversation and John didn't seem inclined to help him. He wished Sam were here. The kid had some kind of magical ability that made people want to spill their guts at a single puppy-dog glance.

Finally he cleared his throat loudly. "Dad, I mean it. _Please_. Can we just talk about this?"

"Dean, look." John shifted in his seat, meeting Dean's imploring gaze uncomfortably. "I know I've kept things from you. But this, this is something you really don't need to know about."

"Dad, I _want_ to know."

John closed his eyes, sighing loudly. "I'm not going to summon the demon, okay? I'm not going to do it, I know it was stupid. So, let's just drop it and go back to the motel."

He rose, pulling a rucksack out from under the table. Dean caught his arm. "No. Dad, I mean it. We need to talk about this. I need to know why this is so important to you."

John stared at him, his eyes scanning Dean's face. Dean kept his hand on his dad's arm, as if without it the other man might make a break for the door.

John dropped back into the booth, every move speaking of his reluctance. "Killing the demon is important to me because it killed your mother, you know that."

"But there's something else, dad. Something you're not telling me." Dean screwed his eyes shut, letting the long-repressed questions finally come. "Whydid it kill mom? I don't have any psychic powers, it didn't happen six months after I was born. So why did it come after her?"

It felt vaguely ridiculous sitting in this crowded diner, waitresses prancing past with lipstick smiles and families laughing from the tables all around them. There was a bell above the door that rang cheerily every time it was open. Dean was ready to rip it from the wall by the time John spoke again.

"Your mother and I…" John stopped, his mouth opening over words that wouldn't come out. He glanced up at Dean, meeting his eyes for a second before fixating on the coffee mug again. "I don't know if you remember, but…when you were nearly three, we-we were having some troubles. In our marriage. She-she wanted another baby, and I didn't. I said we couldn't afford it, that you were enough for me, but she wanted a big family."

Dean blinked. This wasn't at all what he'd been expecting to hear. His parents having marriage problems?

He tried to think of an occasion, _any _occasion, when his parents had argued. But all he could remember was half-hazy scenes of playing in the garden, his dad tossing a ball to him and his mom watching with a bright smile.

"It got…pretty serious. We tried not to argue in front of you, but… Well, I was coming in late from work at night, and she was spending most of her time with you, or with her painting in the spare room. And-and then, one night I'd been out with the boys from work, I'd had a few drinks, and…well, I don't remember any of it. All I remember was waking up next to your mother in bed. She gave me a brilliant smile, and I…I guess I took the easy way out. Just assumed that whatever I'd said or done the night before had made it better." John slumped down in his seat, his face darkening. "I didn't know…"

"What? What happened?" Dean asked in a voice so faint he barely recognised it as his own.

"A few weeks later, she met me at work. Things had been better since that night, just like they'd been before. She was practically glowing. And she said that she was pregnant. And I…I told her I didn't want it."

A small boy went running past their table, chocolate mud pie sticky on both hands and spread over his pink cheeks. The happy shriek he let out as his father scooped him up from behind drew both Dean and John's attention for a minute.

Dean turned back to his father. "What did she do?"

John took a heavy breath and met Dean's eyes. The regret in his gaze was like a physical blow. "She had an abortion. She said…she wasn't going to bring a child into this world without the love of both it's parents. She was…she was so angry.

"We muddled our way through after that, for you, mostly. I think-I think we could have made it work, if the demon hadn't…"

Dean let out a shaky breath, trying to push his thoughts into coherent sentences. "So…so what…"

"I didn't work it out until years later. Until I'd learnt more about the demon. Six months after the due date of the baby we didn't have, the demon came for her."

* * *

Sam rubbed at his head, feeling the rumbling of the truck driving past in the base of his skull.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Caleb asked, looking at him in concern.

"Head hurts." Sam flinched as a car revved its engine at the lights in the street ahead of them. "Let's get back to the motel."

Caleb laid a gentle hand on his back. "You think it's a…y'know, a vision?"

"Dunno." Sam rubbed at his temples with index fingers, squinting at the glare of the sun. "Maybe. I'll try Dean's cell again."

* * *

Dean looked at his father's bowed head across the table.

He had no idea what to say. No words could erase his father's guilt, or stop him blaming himself for the circumstances around his wife's death.

Dean tried to think of a time, _any _time, that his parents had argued. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't picture them as anything other than idealistic parents, the kind he'd watched on motel TV's as a child, envious of what he used to have. He remembered his mom baking him cookies and his dad tucking him in at night. Taking turns reading him stories. He always insisted on Green Eggs And Ham, loved the rhyme of the words and the absurdity of the story. Never a single argument.

Except…

Except dad was asleep on the couch when he'd wake up early in the mornings. The light from mom's painting room would spill into the hallway until late at night.

He wondered what having a baby brother or sister would have been like. Whether it would have changed anything about his life, after mom.

"I never regretted it, you know." John spoke suddenly, startling Dean. "I regretted a lot of things, but after I found out about what that demon had done, what it had _put _inside Mary, I never regretted her…killing it." He met Dean's eyes, his own weary. "Until I got to know Sam.

"I…I couldn't say I wouldn't have been the parent Jim Miller was, if that baby had lived. I couldn't say that I wouldn't have been afraid of it, what it was."

"Are you afraid of Sam?" Dean asked quietly.

John smiled, a twist of lips that was somehow worn out. "No. I'm not. Sam…Sam's a good person. And maybe my child might have been a good person too." He shook his head.

"C'mon son. Let's get back to the motel. We should call Sam and Caleb, they're probably worried."

* * *

The sunlight was too bright. It sliced down like a sword, cutting into the top of Sam's head and making everything throb.

People walked past wearing too-brilliant colours that seemed to leave a scar in his vision that lingered. He wanted to lie down in a dark room and close his eyes, just for a minute.

"Hey kiddo, careful there." Caleb caught his arm as his body listed to one side. He pulled them to a stop. "You okay?"

Sam shook his head, and winced as his brain seemed to slosh about with the movement. "Head hurts."

"Okay, okay. We're nearly back to the motel, d'you think you can make it?"

He took a deep breath, trying to settle his head. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

Caleb kept a hand on his arm. Sam let his eyes drift half-closed, feeling a tiny measure of relief with the motion, and let the older man guide him along the street.

The diner was in sight when the first picture hit, sending Sam reeling backward. Only Caleb's firm grip kept him from falling to the ground.

A dark house appeared in front of his eyes, the scene without sound for a moment. And then he was travelling forward, into the house and up the stairs in the front hall. Framed photos lined the walls; a woman holding a newborn baby, a man standing in front of a building with hands outstretched and a toothy smile pasted on his face. A wedding photo, a man and a woman smiling at the camera from the steps of a Las Vegas wedding chapel, the photo framed with cream-white card that had 'Mr and Mrs Cunningham, 2001' printed along the bottom in gold lettering. He passed them without pausing, reaching the top of the staircase and heading for the far door in the darkened hallway.

The door was closed, but as he approached it swung open as if he'd pushed it with his mind. A baby's crib, sleeping baby on its stomach inside, sat in the centre of the room like a ritual altar. A nightlight glowed soft colours in the corner, changing from blue to purple to red to pink. Sam felt himself being pulled closer, let himself go with it.

This time he looked; paid attention to the surroundings of this unknown house. He understood, knew what was happening and what he was supposed to be seeing. Needed to find some clue to tell him _where this house was_.

As if the demon read his thoughts, he was abruptly pulled out of the vision. A tug like a hook in his belly and he fell back into his body. Caleb was talking.

"Sam! Sam, you with me? Sam!" He blinked muzzily, groaning in answer. Caleb's tone softened. "Hey kid, you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm 'kay."

"Was it a vision?"

"Yeah. Saw…saw a house. The demon…"

Caleb's face cleared in his vision. The older man looked pale, his face blocking the sunlight. "Hey, don't worry about that now. Can you make it to the motel?"

Sam nodded, regretting the twitch of his head as he did it.

Caleb half-carried him, one arm around his waist and the other holding Sam's arm across his shoulders.

A couple checking out of the motel gave them funny looks as they staggered across the parking lot, weaving from side to side like drunks.

"Hey! Hey, Sammy!" Sam tried to turn his head, giving up when the effort proved too much and letting it loll forward instead.

"Dean, John! Where the fuck've you guys been?" Caleb answered. Footfalls pounded the ground, growing louder. Sam moaned at the resulting echo in his head.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Dean's voice again, loud. Too loud. Sam tried to say as much, but it came out a dry groan.

"Vision." Caleb answered shortly. Hands in his shirt, pulling him carefully toward a warm body. "Let's get him inside."


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me and reviewed this story, your comments were motivation to keep writing and updating! Unfortunately there's only one chapter (and the epilogue) to go before we get to the end :( but I hope you guys enjoy this, and please leave me a review to let me know what you think! The last chapter will be posted on Wednesday, so look out for it…

Chapter 23

Sam lay on his back across Caleb's bed, a damp towel held over his eyes with one hand. Around him he could hear Dean, John and Caleb; a mix of raised voices and determined tones. He couldn't focus on one long enough to follow the discussion.

The aborted vision played through in the back of his head, and he felt shamefully relieved that he wasn't forced to endure yet another stranger's death.

His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice above his head made him wince into the wet cloth. "Sammy, can you talk yet?"

He breathed in deeply and removed the cloth, his eyes screwing up reflexively as they were assaulted by the brightness of the room. Someone had considerately pulled the curtains across the window, but the midday light was sneaking in through cracks, touching Sam's vision like knife blades.

"What did you see?" John's gruff voice sounded tense, a contradiction to the almost relaxed pose his body held. Sam wondered whether the older man had tried to summon the demon; whether Dean had gotten to him in time to stop it. But apparently now wasn't the time to be asking questions with the three men standing around him like inquisitors, the same mask of aloofness on each face.

"I-I saw a house, I don't know where or when, but it was night. I went upstairs and into a baby's room. But…" he frowned, trying to remember, "but then I was pulled out of it somehow. I didn't see the demon."

"That's it? That's all?" John said, frowning.

"That's all."

"So there's no way of actually _finding _this place before the demon comes." The corners of John's mouth pulled down.

"Well we can look around, check for cattle mutilations and other signs." Caleb broke in, his words belayed by the disappointment in his face.

Dean sunk to the bed beside Sam, his head falling into his hands. "Well, it's something at least, right? At least we know that the demon's coming."

John and Caleb both nodded. Sam could feel the disheartened waves emanating from their bodies. He flopped back down onto the bed, clenching his jaw despite the shooting pains it caused his head. He'd let everyone down. They were counting on him and he'd failed.

"Was there anything else? Anything that might help?" Dean asked softly, his hand fisting in the sheets beside their bodies.

"Not really." Sam said, squeezing his eyes shut in irritation. If he could just remember, think it through _clearly_… "Wait, there was something." John looked up, veiled hope in his eyes. "There was a picture in the hallway of the house, it was a wedding photo. Mr and Mrs Cunningham; they got married in Vegas in 2001. Maybe…"

"We could try. It might be enough." Caleb perked up. "If I ran a few searches…" He clinked at the laptop on the table.

Sam pulled his cell phone free of his jeans pocket, tossing it to Dean. "Call Stephen. He might be able to trace the name, find an address to go along with it." Replacing the cold cloth on his head made him feel slightly better.

* * *

Dean hung up after talking to Stephen, the old man promising to look into it immediately and call him back. Sam was still lying prone on the bed, the cloth over his eyes and his shirt riding up to expose tanned stomach and hip bones. He wanted more than anything to be able to _touch_, to stroke over soft skin and reassure the kid that he was there. But with Caleb and his dad in the same room there would be little chance of that, and the job hung heavy on all their heads.

"I've got signs of demonic activity in Texas, Seattle and Long Island." Caleb announced from his place in front of the computer. "They could all fit the bill."

"Pretty wide range. And we don't even know if the demon will be coming anytime soon." John said, slouching down lower in the hard wooden chair.

"Well we'll see what Stephen can dig up. If he can find the address then we can try matching them up." Dean said, trying to sound optimistic.

John grunted in his direction.

* * *

"Long Island."

"What?" John looked up from the book he was rereading for perhaps the ninth time in an hour.

Dean stepped back into the motel room, dropping Sam's cell phone on the table. Caleb was still in front of the computer, his face lit up by the electronic glow. Sam had graduated to sitting, the now mostly-dry cloth being passed from hand to hand.

"Long Island." He repeated. "Stephen called back. The Cunningham's moved there two years ago, into a lovely three bedroom semi-detached house on a street called Cowden Lane in Suffolk County. A good neighbourhood, close to the local school, near enough for Michael Cunningham to commute to his job as an office supplies manager. Sherilyn Cunningham works from home as a computer game designer."

Dean watched in growing satisfaction as his father's face seemed to reanimate, like a sketch on a page coming to life. John stood, his hands flexing by his sides.

"So we know where we're going?"

"Got the directions right here." Dean held up the back of his left hand, displaying the pen scribbles on the skin. He grinned brightly. "Anyone feel like a trip?"

They packed up the cars and were on the road in less than half an hour. Dean glanced over at Sam in the passenger seat as they pulled out of the motel parking lot. The kid was scrunched in a ball, his hoodie wrapped tightly around him like a security blanket.

"Hey kid. You okay?"

Sam looked over at him, smiling wearily. "Yeah. Just, head still hurts. And…I'm tired."

"Well it's gonna take a while to get there. Get some sleep. I'll wake you when we stop."

Sam shook his head, the same little smile on his lips. "No. I mean, I'm tired of _this_. The demon, everything about it. Chasing it all over the country. I'm just…tired of it all. Of hating it. You know?" He cocked his head, his eyes burning into Dean's.

Dean looked back for a long moment, his own smile playing around his mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, I know Sammy." He turned back to the road for a second. "After this is all over, we'll take a break. Take a vacation or something. Figure out what we're gonna do next."

"Okay." Sam nodded shyly. "I'd like that."

John's truck drove determinedly on, eating up interstate under its tires. The Impala thrummed around Dean like an extension of himself.

Sam despite his protests fell asleep before they could clear the town, curling up into himself like a kitten, one hand a paw resting beside his forehead on the leather of the seat. His entire body was turned toward Dean and the smile that hadn't quite faded still turned up the corners of his mouth. Dean grinned over at the kid, reaching out a hand to brush his forefinger along the back of Sam's wrist and revelling in the fact that he was _allowed _to do it.

* * *

Sam woke with a grunt as the Impala jerked to a sudden halt. He blinked sleepily at the scene through the windscreen. Night had fallen while he slept, and the streetlights lining the side of the road blinked through the swaying of the trees.

They'd stopped at a diner, seemingly in the middle of a forest. The road leading to the entrance was uneven and waterlogged, and Sam wondered how he'd slept through the drive along it.

"Yeah, okay dad." Sam looked over at Dean, who was holding his cell phone to his ear and nodding. He noticed that John's truck was nowhere in sight. "Yeah, we'll meet you when we get there. Bye."

Dean clicked his cell shut, smiling at Sam when he noticed he was awake.

"Where're John and Caleb?" Sam asked, stretching his long arms out as much as he could in the confined space of the car. Dean blinked, his eyes following the movement of Sam's body before returning to his face.

"I wanted to stop for food. They're gonna keep going for another hour and meet us in the next town."

"You couldn't wait?"

"Dude. _Pie_." Dean said earnestly, as if no further explanation was needed. Sam followed him out of the car, wincing as the cuffs of his jeans dragged through puddles.

"So what happened with your dad? Did he…"

"Summon the demon?" Dean asked, looking sideways at Sam with a funny twisted smile as they entered the tiny truck-stop. "No. I found him in the diner down the road from the motel."

"What? Doing what?" Sam had a flash image of John trying to perform a demon-summoning ritual amongst the chequered tablecloths and 'authentic' old-time décor, the waitress popping pink gum in the background.

"Just sitting there with a cup of cold coffee. I don't think he was actually gonna do it."

"Oh." They dropped into a scarred plastic booth by the window, the waitress dropping menus on the table and stalking away like she had better things to do. Sam hesitated before speaking, not sure he should be pushing the subject. But Dean's jaw set like he was steeling himself and he tried to stutter out an explanation.

"He-he told me some stuff. About why he's so obsessed with this thing. And…and about my mom. Y'know, why she died differently to the others."

"You don't have to tell me." Sam ventured.

Dean looked down at the table, his fingers playing with the salt-and-pepper shakers. "Yeah. But I want to. No secrets, right?"

Sam smiled bright at Dean's words, unable to stop the rush of warmth spreading out from his chest, despite the subject matter.

The waitress came back before Dean could say anything else, one hand on her hip and a bored expression on her face. Dean flashed white teeth up at her. "Do you have pie?"

* * *

"Where have you been?" John practically jumped on Dean as he slid out from the driver's seat of the Impala. His father was electrified, every movement he made jumpy and static. At any other time Dean would have been amused.

"We just stopped off for some food, dad, we weren't more'n half an hour behind you." Caleb was nowhere to be seen, apparently holed up in the motel room, away from John's manic excitement.

"Well, in that half-hour, Caleb and I were able to book the motel rooms, drive to the Cunningham's house and come back. The demon isn't there tonight, we'll stake it out tomorrow night."

Dean tried to affect a suitably chastened expression. "Sorry, dad." Sam wisely chose to stay silent on the other side of the Impala.

John grunted, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. "C'mon, you boys get inside. I booked you the room next to mine. Drop your stuff in there and then we can start planning this thing."

Dean met Sam's eyes over the car for a second before John cleared his throat pointedly. Dean was moving before he realised he was going to.

The motel was classier than the places they usually stayed in, a small family-run business rather than an anonymous Motel 6. The rooms were painted in neutral colours, the sheets on the bed looking like they'd actually been washed between uses.

John kept them up and rereading the same books until Dean's eyes were blurring and yawns crept up on him every few seconds.

Sam was faring no better, his head drooping ever closer toward the pages of the open book spread across the table in front of him. Caleb had already given up and slipped out, much to John's displeasure.

The room was pleasantly warm, the cream walls soothing. It was lulling Dean into a light doze, much as he tried to resist.

When Sam jerked backward with enough force to fling his body from his chair it took a second for Dean to register it.

Sam's hands were curled into claws, digging into his scalp like he was trying to tear it off. His face was screwed up in a mask of pain, his mouth working on words with no sound.

"Sam!" Dean launched himself from the bed. John was already by Sam's side, restraining him as his body thrashed whip-like from side to side. "Sammy!"

"What's wrong with him?" John looked up at him.

Dean shrugged helplessly, pulling Sam's head into his lap to hold it still. "I dunno, he's…"

Suddenly Sam went limp in their arms, gasping on pants of air like he'd been drowning.

"Sam! Sammy, you okay? What happened?"

Sam opened his eyes, a shaky hand coming up to rub sweat and clumps of damp hair from his face. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept for days. Dean had a vivid flashback of Sam's condition after Jim Miller had gotten to him back in Elmstead. It brought cold chills to the back of his neck.

"I…I don't know." Sam said, his voice hoarse. "It-it was the same vision as last time, but…" He tried to pull himself to a sitting position, fingers sweat-slippery in the material of Dean's shirt. "It was…different. I didn't go in the house, I just _stood _there, looking up and down the street."

"Maybe it's different because we changed it, y'know? By being here, it's different. You said the other visions you had didn't turn out like you saw them because we got there to stop them happening."

Sam blinked up at him. "Yeah, maybe. But, it just didn't _feel _the same."

John put a hand out, squeezing Sam's arm gently. "Well, whatever the reason for it, we're here and we'll take care of it. Once and for all."

Sam nodded, but Dean saw the uncertainty in his face.

* * *

The next night saw a hulking black truck sitting silently, a behemoth on the corner of Cowden Lane. Turning into the street from the opposite direction, a black Impala purred like a sleek panther before the sound was extinguished.

Sam could just make out the figures of Caleb and John in the front seat of the truck, both of them poised and motionless. Dean was practically thrumming with repressed energy beside him, his movements quick like he was on a caffeine high. It was a possibility; all four of them had consumed enough coffee to pay for the college education of the family-run diner attached to the motel. Caleb had been restless all day, unable to settle in a chair for more than two minutes without finding some pointless chore to attend to. More often than not it had been yet another coffee run, and the motel room they'd been holed up in was now filled with empty disposable cups. John had been the only one of them able to sit calmly and go through the extensive notes he had written in his journal.

If the demon showed itself tonight, it would be dead. John held the box containing the Colt, hadn't let it out of his sight all day.

Except Sam couldn't shake the growing feeling that something wasn't right.

His visions had never changed before. He'd never felt like he was being _forced _out of one before it had shown him all it was going to.

He tried to push the uneasiness away, but it was hard.

"You think it'll show tonight?" Dean's voice sounded loud in the enclosed space of the car, startling Sam out of his thoughts. The older man had produced a half eaten bag of peanut M&M's from somewhere, tossing handfuls back like they were shots of whiskey.

Sam stuffed his own hand in the bag. "I dunno. Just gotta wait and see, I guess."

Night had fallen an hour ago, coating the landscape in veils. Sam could see the full moon high above them, wisps of cloud like cigarette smoke drifting across its face.

The Cunningham's house was attractive, even in the half-light of moon and street lights. The garden was neatly tended and pale geraniums bobbed their heads along the boundaries of dark lawn. A black sedan was parked in the paved driveway, a yew bush separating it from the neighbour's station wagon in the next driveway.

Sam wondered what his own house had looked like, before the demon visited and stole his mother from him. He realised with a start that he didn't even know what state he'd lived in, where he'd been born. What his mom had done for a living.

The streetlight beside them flickered. Dean sat up abruptly, the M&M's discarded on the dash.

On the opposite side of the street two figures emerged from the truck, crouching and silent as shadows.

"Think this is it." Dean whispered unnecessarily as he opened his door. The stealthy exit was ruined by the squeal of the ungreased door hinge and Sam winced as his own door emitted the same noise. Dean flashed a grin at him over the car. "Remind me to oil those when we're done."

Caleb jogged up to them, a shotgun partially concealed in his jacket. "C'mon, get your asses in gear or John'll decide to do it all himself."

"Hey maybe we should wait for a…" Sam's hesitance was unheard as John strode over to their group.

"Let's go, we don't have time to sit around talking."

The big man turned on his heel without waiting for a reply, the loaded Colt clenched tightly in his fist. Dean was following on his heels, Caleb almost dancing beside him.

Sam gritted his jaw, glancing up and down the quiet street before reluctantly trailing after them.

* * *

A loud crack like a snapping branch came from beyond the closed door of the house. John didn't wait, kicking the door with his booted foot until it gave, the doorframe splintering. Dean felt dizzy, high on adrenaline and nerves. This was _it_, the night, the event his life had been in preparation for.

John barrelled inside the house, vanishing from sight and Dean didn't falter in following him.

Except two steps inside the house he ran blindly into the unyielding bulk of his dad's back. He stumbled back, his body singing with disoriented confusion and the rush of blood. A split-second later Caleb ploughed into them.

"Dad, what…"

A cream-smooth voice came from somewhere in the darkened house. "Aw, Johnny, you and your boys didn't really think it would be that easy, did you?" Dean felt it like ice slipping down his spine.

John spoke, terse and strained. "It's a…"

"Trap." The demon finished for him, amusement colouring his voice. "Maybe next time you should listen to little Sammy Miller."

Sam. Where the hell _was _Sam? Dean turned toward the open door, but before he could take a step something grabbed him. Something that locked every muscle in his body, freezing him in place. "Let me go!"

"I don't think so, Dean." A movement in the blackness. A figure stepped toward him from the length of the hallway. Dean heard a loud thud and a pained grunt as Caleb was propelled to the wall, out of the demon's path. "I think we should all go outside and have a nice chat." He caught a flash of the demon's stolen face in the light spilling from the front door, smiling toothily as it neared him.

Suddenly his body was tossed backward, thrown like a sheet of paper caught in the wind. Dean tumbled, every instinct screaming at him to brace himself. He struggled pointlessly at the invisible binds pulled around his skin as they tightened, pulling him to the side of the house before he could drop. The sound of a baby crying within the house cut into his head like the slice of a knife.

"Dean!" He looked up at Sam's call. The kid was struggling against a woman wearing a nightdress, her bare feet dirty and grass stained. She had one arm across his neck in a stranglehold, the other wrapped around his middle, pinning both arms to his sides.

Caleb and John came tumbling out of the house, thrown by invisible hands. They landed on the ground in a tangle of limbs.

"I think you've met my children before? Or at least one of them." The demon walked easily out of the house, its movements liquid. Dean looked out onto the street to see three, no, four people slinking toward the house, their eyes empty and blank. They stopped behind the woman holding Sam, malicious smiles on their stolen faces. There were three men, each in various stages of undress. The last woman wore a cop uniform, gun in its holster on her hip. She stroked the butt, her eyes meeting Dean's.

"What the fuck do you want?" John grunted out from his prone position on the floor. The demon turned its attention to him with a smirk. It blinked yellow eyes once, and with a tiny jerk like the snap of elastic John clambered to his feet, the Colt held steady in one hand.

"I want that gun. And you're going to give it to me."

John spat out a harsh laugh. "Why the hell would I do that?"

The demon cocked its head to one side, pretending to think. "Oh, I don't know, because if you don't I'll kill your boys?"

"I can kill you right now." John levelled the Colt at its head. The demon didn't seem threatened by the gesture, shaking its head with a wistful smile like it was facing off with an unruly child.

"You could. And then my children would kill you and your friends anyway."

The woman holding Sam cruelly twisted her arm. He choked, his arms wresting free of her hold to scrabble at his throat.

Dean called out before he could stop himself. "Sam!"

John darted a look at Sam struggling to breathe; at Caleb lying still on the ground, his eyes wild and staring. At his son. Dean saw the sadness in his father's face, the fear and terrible regret.

"Dad, don't do it!"

"Yeah daddy, don't do it!" The demon mocked. It took a step toward John, unconcerned for its own safety. "So, Johnny, what's it gonna be? Your boys or your revenge?"


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Firstly I want to say, VERY SORRY about the delay in updating this, this chapter got stuck and wouldn't write :( But it is here, and hopefully you guys will forgive me… Thank you all so much for your reviews, I've loved reading them all, and they have inspired me to make this story better! Even if you haven't reviewed so far, I hope you'll drop me a line just to tell me what you thought (constructive criticism is more than welcome, I want to know what bits worked and what bits didn't) and I promise I will answer all signed reviews for both this chapter and the epilogue, because I know I've been terrible about that so far! And hopefully you won't want to kill me when you get to the end of the chapter… :) Epilogue up on Sunday, I promise!

Chapter 24

Sam couldn't breathe.

The pretty blonde woman he'd seen in his vision, looking so happy and in love on her wedding day, was currently pressing her forearm into his throat. She wore a white nightdress, like she'd been getting ready for bed when it had happened. When the demon had taken over her body. Her eyes were blank and dead like a shark.

He scratched at her skin, feeling the fragile flesh peel away under his fingernails. The lack of air was making his vision swim, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and he knew he was about to pass out.

Dean yelled "Sammy!" Sam could see him from across the lawn, pinned to the side of the house by invisible hands. He screwed his eyes up. _Not now, not yet. Dean needs me._

It seemed to work for a second, the outlines of the strange people around him becoming stronger. And then the woman twisted her arm brutally. His mouth opened on a soundless yelp and everything went dark.

* * *

"No! Sam!" Dean's fingers, the only part of him not tied to the demon's control, flexed uselessly at the stucco wall behind him.

Sam went limp in the woman's arms, sagging like a puppet of himself with the strings cut. She dropped him to the ground, a bare foot pressing into the small of his back.

John flinched visibly at the sound of Sam's head bouncing on the sidewalk but he didn't turn toward it. His gun arm was still thrust out in front of him, his finger on the trigger.

"Looks like you've already lost one, Johnny-boy." The demon smirked. "How about the others? You willing to play Russian roulette with their lives, too?"

"Shut up, you sonovabitch." John said through gritted teeth.

"Aw, c'mon John, we're having fun." The demon looking up at the woman, keeping Sam's body pinned to the ground. "I don't think he's dead. Not yet anyway."

Dean stared at his father, trying to beg with his eyes. _Don't do it, dad. Don't let them kill Sam._ John glanced at him, like he could feel the strength of Dean's plea.

"I don't think it's gonna work, Dean." The demon broke in, his mouth twisted up in false sympathy. "I think daddy wants me dead more than he wants Sammy alive. Besides," the demon took a sinuous step in John's direction. "isn't _Sam_ one of the things you've been fighting against? One of those evil supernatural _things _that kills people? Have you told Dean what you did the last time you met with one of my gifted children?" The smile on its lips grew as it turned in Dean's direction.

Dean clenched his jaw. _Demons lie_, he told himself, _they twist things_.

As if it heard his thoughts, the demon nodded. "You don't want to listen, but I really think you should hear this, Dean. What your daddy did to poor Max. His powers were out of control, he was smashing mirrors and windows, throwing knives in his sleep. With his _mind_, you understand.

"And John Winchester figured out who he was. _What _he was. A demon child, isn't that right, John?" It nodded in John's direction. "So he…how did you put it? _put him out of his misery_? He was only a few years younger than your Sammy here."

Dean was shaking his head before he even realised he was doing it. Rolling it against the painful hard bumps of concrete behind him. John's eyes were on him but he couldn't meet them. Couldn't see through the veil of tears that were glossing his eyes over.

John killed someone like Sam. Would have killed _Sam _if he'd come across him on his own. Demons lie, but sometimes they tell the truth, when it benefits them.

_But he said!_ Dean's mind cried desperately. _He said, in the diner, that Sam was a good person. That he wasn't afraid of him._

But a kid, younger than Sam, was still dead and by his father's hand. _Because _of his father's hatred of this demon.

Dean looked into John's eyes with an effort. Saw bitter guilt and the faint hint of remorse.

"Maybe you need more incentive." The demon drew attention back to itself, tapping a forefinger against its chin in mock consideration. It was playing a game, secure in the knowledge that it had already won, and Dean felt white-hot anger bringing burning tears to his eyes.

The demon span on its heel sharply, looking across at the woman whose heel was still digging into Sam's lifeless body. It spoke curtly, all hints of playfulness gone from its voice. "Break his back."

She smiled slowly. "Yes father."

She lifted her leg, raising the skirt of her nightdress with one hand to lewdly display the bare skin as she met Dean's eyes. She wiggled her tongue at him obscenely, and the gesture horrified him. Dean wrenched at his body, a wordless guttural scream tearing free of his lips as the tendons strained against the nothing holding them in place.

John turned, too slowly, too slowly to stop her.

Dean could see it happening, see that bitch's heel coming down in magnified detail. The muscles in her leg were pulled tight, the demonic power compressed into human form. Aiming at Sam's spine.

Before it could connect, a body hit her, shoulder driving into soft stomach like a battering ram. A soft whoof of air escaped her mouth and then she was landing heavily on the tarmac of the street.

Caleb lay sprawled across her, his body shuddering like his limbs were lined with lead. His face was screwed up in pain, the scar along the side of his face rippling and pulling at his features. Tears leaked out from the corners of his eyes.

The demon snarled, its face contorting into something ugly and _wrong_. "Oh, you're gonna pay for that."

As if he'd commanded them, the cop woman and one of the men moved forward, their expressions showing gleeful anticipation. Caleb was hauled to his knees, the man standing behind him with meaty hands on either shoulder.

The cop woman pulled out her revolver, gripping it with both hands and holding it to Caleb's sweaty forehead.

"Wait!" John's voice broke into the still night, fragmented like a smashed glass. "I'll give you the gun. Just…just let them go. All of them."

* * *

Sam winced, his head heavy and throbbing like the bass track on one of Dean's heavy rock albums. The side of his face burnt and he felt the prickle of tiny gravel and stones beneath his cheek. What was he doing on the ground? Had his dad knocked him out again?

He peeked through slitted eyes, not quite sure why he should be cautious but trusting his instincts. They'd got him through years of beatings, and though this one felt different somehow, he figured the same rules would apply.

But Jim Miller and his angry fists were nowhere in sight. Instead he saw a strange tableau; John Winchester, his feet planted wide like a gunfighter in an old western. The gun in his hand was held steady, pointed at a smaller man with his face pulled into a savage snarl.

Dean was against the wall of the house, a side character, unimportant in the climactic scene. But Sam's gaze lingered on him, and something hot wrenched free inside his chest.

Dean's eyes went wide, his mouth falling open in a moue of surprise. He didn't see Sam, couldn't read the awareness on his face from this distance, and Sam wondered what he'd done.

And then Dean was moving, stepping free of the wall that had previous held him stiff. Sam forgot about discretion, one hand pushing his body awkwardly upright.

Had he…

"Dad!" Dean yelled. Both the demon and John Winchester turned, their faces wide in shock.

"How the hell…" The demon didn't get a chance to finish its sentence. John pulled the trigger, the spark and fire of the gun like a scream in the still night air.

The body the demon was using seemed to contract in on itself.

But there was no opportunity to see if the bullet had worked. The other possessed people, previously content to stand and watch the scene impassively, were suddenly animated like wind-up dolls come to life.

With animalistic screams they ran at John, heedlessly trampling flowers and mud underfoot. One pinned him against the car in the driveway with unnatural strength, a clawed hand striking at his face. Dean was thrown to the ground as the same woman that had previously been holding Sam leapt onto his chest, her weight knocking him to the ground.

And from somewhere behind him, another gunshot rang out.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, stumbling unsteadily. A hand flew through the air, attempting to grab hold of his arm and pull him around to face a punch. Somehow it was deflected, sliding off thin air like it was a physical barrier. Sam didn't have time to think about it, half-running and half-tripping his way across the lawn toward John and Dean.

John still held the Colt in his left hand, twisting it around as the demonically possessed body slammed him into the car door. He grunted, pulling his arm up with considerable effort. The gun sounded and the possessed man gasped, the body falling to the ground.

And then Sam was forced to his knees as his head seemed to explode. Brilliant flashes stole his sight and for a second he thought _this is it, I'm shot, I'm dead_. But then the scene came back to him, too bright, too many colours that didn't exist in nature. He saw Dean on the ground, the woman in the nightdress straddling his waist. She growled from deep in her throat, her teeth bared like a wild dog and her hair flying about her face. Hatred in her eyes and a jagged sliver of metal in her hand. Sam watched, his body motionless and his mouth empty of sound as her arm was lifted across her body. She whipped the piece of metal down in a movement too fast to follow. Dean's eyes stretched wide and his mouth fell open. A red line appeared across his neck in the wake of the metal, needle thin at first and then opening like a second mouth and spilling gouts of blood that pulsed with Dean's heartbeat.

_No, no, no, _nononono. Sam opened his eyes. The woman straddling Dean held the slice of ripped metal in her hand. But…

But it was the wrong hand, and it was clean of red wet, and…

And Dean thrashed madly underneath her, his fists white and his own teeth clenched, snarling viciously. No slit across his throat, no blood. The scream of agony that built in Sam's chest died stillborn on his tongue before it could be released.

The woman took the metal into her other hand and raised it over her chest and _now_ it matched the picture Sam had just seen. Sam propelled himself over the lawn, his feet miraculously finding grip on the churned mud and trampled grass. He fell face first into the woman, catching her around the waist with one arm and putting his own body in between that fatal shard of metal and Dean.

She fell under his weight, her face slamming into the earth. Sam heard a soft crack as her nose broke. An elbow flew back, catching him in the gut and knocking all air out of his lungs. He rolled off her body, gasping painfully.

Dean was struggling out from under the combined weight of their legs, pulling himself free and gawping at Sam like he was a miracle personified. Sam would have made a cute comment at the dumb look on Dean's face if they hadn't been in the middle of a life-or-death situation.

"Dean!" John's yell caught both their attention, and they looked over in his direction as one. He was struggling with one of the possessed men, the one he'd shot lying unmoving at their feet. The Colt lay by John's feet.

Dean was moving toward his father, his eyes on the gun, when it happened. When the third shot of the night rang out, crisp as the flick of a knife. Dean yelped, stumbling sideways, one hand coming up to his upper arm. A spot of wet blossomed dark on the material of his sleeve. He didn't fall; kept running toward John and the gun that could save them all.

He fell to his knees, sliding forward with the momentum and snatching up the Colt from beside the dead body. He squeezed one hand over the gunshot wound in his bicep, the gun held in a steady grip despite the screaming agony that must have been singing through the nerves of his arm.

The cop woman was striding toward him, gun raised and ready to fire off another shot. Before she had the chance, Dean fired, hitting her dead-centre on the forehead like there was a bullseye painted there. She dropped to the ground, the light barely extinguished from her eyes before she hit.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, his eyes wild. Sam turned in time to see the same slice of metal he'd just saved Dean from glinting in the streetlights as it descended toward his face. He blinked, and something in his brain _pushed_, burst like a popped soap bubble. Everything went red, a flash of silver in the hot glow before there was only darkness.

* * *

"Sammy!" The throb of Dean's arm was distant, unimportant and easily ignored. The blade that the woman had hidden in the palm of her hand ripped through the air, the point aimed at the back of Sam's neck. Dean raised the Colt, but the blood was pumping free of his arm, making it feel leaden and weak. He couldn't make the shot. Not without risking killing Sam himself.

Then the goddamned bitch of a woman was gasping, her face white and open in her shock. The gleam of metal flashed in the dull artificial lights as it stopped in its trajectory, slipping backward from her fingers and snapping through the air to embed itself with force in the stucco wall of the house. Dean gaped for a second, certain that it had been some kind of demon trick, that the woman would laugh and pull out something even more deadly from the folds of her nightdress. But she looked as surprised as Dean at the sudden turn of events. And Sam didn't seem concerned with the woman anymore, hands scrabbling at his face like his skin was itching. He fell backward onto his ass with a heavy thud. It was enough, and Dean took the shot without hesitation, watching dispassionately as the woman fell down dead on the lawn.

"Dean! Gimme the gun!" John yelled, a hand outstretched toward him. Dean slapped the Colt into his dad's hand, his injured arm twitching uncontrollably. The pain sent a wave of nausea through him, and for a second he was afraid his dinner would make a reappearance. Dean gritted his teeth against it, ridiculously embarrassed by his body's reaction.

Another shot blasted through the air, somehow seeming louder than all the gunfire before. A thump followed and then the night air rang in silence.

Dean looked up to see the final possessed man dead on the ground in front of his dad.

It was over. They had won.

Dean fell back against the car, his hand still clenched tightly around his gunshot wound. He closed his eyes and took a long wavering breath. They had done it. They had survived. The body the yellow-eyed demon had inhabited lay still on the ground to his left, and Dean started to bend over it, feeling like a cripple. He had to know if it was really over, if the demon had actually died with this man.

Before he could reach it, hands were tugging him upright and fussing with his arm. _Sammy…_ Dean thought with a weary smile. But it was his dad's eyes staring into his own with concern and worry, his dad's soft hands carefully peeling back cloth from his arm.

"Dad, the demon…"

"Are you okay?" John cut him off before he could tell his dad to check on the demon. "Dean, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I'll be fine." Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and Dean blinked them away, feeling suddenly so unbelievably exhausted. "Check the…check the demon."

"The guy's dead, Dean. Don't worry about the demon for now, okay." John spoke calmly, his attention fixed on Dean's wound.

At the words, Dean felt a tiny flare of panic. "We didn't…it's not dead?"

John met his eyes, something indefinable shadowed in his own. "No. It got away before the bullet hit. But don't worry about that now."

Dean felt stripped bare, like the top layers of skin had been sliced from his body leaving him sore and exposed. Everything seemed blurry and half-focused and all he wanted to do was collapse. He looked past his dad, down the ordinary street lined with bodies of unknown people. Good people, _innocent _people. All killed because of the damn demon. Sam sat unseeingly in the middle of the bodies, his hands dug into the grass between his splayed knees like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

One body caught Dean's eye, and he was pulling free of John's hands before he could stop himself. "Caleb!"

Caleb was lying still on the sidewalk, dark stains covering his dirty shirt. His eyes were closed.

Dean made to run to the other man but blood loss made him dizzy and light headed. He caught himself on the end of the car before he could topple over. John pushed past him, running to Caleb's side. "Caleb? Caleb, you hear me?"

Dean watched from a distance, his heart pounding hard enough to give him a headache. After what seemed like an age, the older man gave a faint groan, twitching on the ground.

John looked up at Dean. "He's been shot. He needs a hospital."

"Okay." Dean mumbled, almost to himself. "Okay…" He pushed off of the car, stumbling toward Sam on autopilot. Sam would help, Sam would calm him down enough to let him _think_.

He dropped to his knees in front of Sam, his hand coming out to clutch at the kid's arms. "Sammy…"

"Dean…" Sam lifted his head, and Dean recoiled in shock. The blood vessels in Sam's eyes had burst, brilliant red encircling blown pupils. Sam gripped his arm, digging nails into the material of Dean's shirt. The other hand pressed at his forehead. As Dean watched, a trickle of blood spilled from Sam's nose, leaving a red trail behind. "Dean, it hurts…"

A baby's cry broke the still night air, followed by the sound of sirens.


	25. Epilogue

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars yet, you'll probably want to read that first :)

Okay, here it is, the final part! I want to say a massive THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed, you guys really inspired me with this and it was great hearing from you :) I really hope you all enjoy the epilogue, and please review and tell me what you thought of the story…

Epilogue

The hospital was crowded, filled with running people. Dean couldn't focus enough to take it in, could only see brightly coloured scrubs dancing back and forth in his vision.

A woman led him into a closed-off room as soon as they arrived at the hospital. A steady stream of doctors and nurses trailed in and out, inspecting his arm and writing notes on a chart. He was hooked up to a blood bag and an IV of antibiotics and left to sit, dazed and confused. Where was Sam? Where were his dad and Caleb? How the hell had John gotten them out of that damn street without the police arresting them? And then a doctor with greying hair and kind eyes jabbed him with a needle, and everything had faded away into blissful quiet.

* * *

When Dean came round, it was to the exhausted eyes of his father. He was lying in a bed, stripped out of his clothes and dressed in white hospital scrubs. A bandage was wound around his bicep tightly, a sling strapping his arm across his chest.

"Dad?" He croaked out. John looked up from his seat beside the bed, a hand gripping the sheets.

"Dean. How are you feeling?"

"Where's Sam? And Caleb?"

John looked away. "Sam's being checked over in another room. Caleb…Caleb's not doing too well, son."

"Is he…" Dean couldn't finish his sentence, the stress of the night a weight on his head despite the insistent pull of the painkillers he was being fed.

"They don't know. The doctors are trying to stitch him up, but he was shot in the chest and he's bleeding a lot. We'll know more later." John relayed the information in a dull tone, like he was reciting from a book. His eyes flitted about the clean white room without resting on anything. "They say he has a chance, but he lost a lot of blood before they could get him here."

"Oh." It didn't seem enough, and yet Dean couldn't find anything else to say. Couldn't find the words to express his anger and frustration.

John pushed himself up from the chair with a heavy breath. Dean caught his wrist. "Dad? Where are you going?" He was embarrassed at the faint note of panic in his voice, but the tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him the demon was still out there, still alive.

"I'm gonna go check on the others." John smiled, a pull of his mouth that caused deep lines to appear in his tired face. "I'll be back soon, don't worry."

Dean wanted to laugh and say he hadn't been worried, but all he could seem to find the energy for was a nod. As John left the room, Dean sank back into soft pillows. He hadn't asked about Sam, he realised. He hadn't asked what was wrong with him. His mind was slow and lethargic. The thought accompanied him as he slid seamlessly back into sleep.

* * *

When he woke up again, the room was dark and the blinds pulled. Dean blinked, his free hand coming up to rub at his sore eyes.

"Hey." He turned toward the soft voice coming from the chair next to his bed. Sam smiled at him from beneath a pair of Ray-Bans. His face was stark white in the shadows of the room. Timid fingers stroked the back of Dean's wrist before carefully linking their hands together. "How's the arm?"

"Fine." Dean frowned. Apparently he'd missed something. Quite a few somethings. "What…what the hell's been going on?"

The smile faded from Sam's face a little and he leaned back in his chair. "Caleb…he's still in theatre. The bullet did a lot of damage, and apparently he has ripped ligaments in his knees and shoulders."

Dean blinked. "How did that happen?"

"The demon." Sam glanced at the closed door, as if making sure no one had crept in to overhear their conversation. "Your dad…he told me how Caleb saved me, when the woman was going to…" Dean couldn't help the wince as the scene replayed in his head; the woman's foot coming down on Sam's exposed back. Sam shivered involuntarily. "Anyway, it seems that the demon…it still had a hold on him. When he shoved her out of the way. He was being pressed into the ground. The pressure of fighting it pulled one of his shoulders out of the socket and ripped cartilage and muscle around his kneecaps."

Dean blinked, a breath of air escaping his mouth. "Christ. Is he gonna…"

"They don't know yet. Your dad's waiting for news." Sam looked at the floor as he spoke.

"How did we get outta there?" Dean asked, tentatively changing the subject. "I thought we'd've been arrested on sight with all those bodies lying around."

"What do you remember?" Sam asked quietly.

"I remember…" _your eyes_, he thought but didn't say "dad killed the rest of them, and then I saw Caleb, and I ran to you."

Sam nodded, as if it confirmed something. "You passed out after that. The paramedics…they came and loaded you and Caleb into ambulances."

"But how did we get away?" Dean pressed. A thought occurred to him. "Are we gonna _be_ arrested? When the cops get here?"

"The cops have already been. They…they think it was the woman. The cop woman. They think she went nuts and started shooting up the street, and the neighbours were trying to stop her. We were just…what's the phrase, _in the wrong place at the wrong time_." Sam spoke with a sour twist to his lips.

"But the gun, the Colt. They're gonna find that not all the bullet wounds match the cop's gun." Dean's good hand was still entangled with Sam's, and he squeezed it tightly. "What, they think she shot herself between the eyes?"

Sam was inscrutable behind the dark glasses. "Yeah, actually. They think there was another gun involved, but they're not gonna look too hard for it."

"What? Why not?"

Now Sam looked away, his shoulders hunching in on himself. He didn't reply straight away, and when he did it was in a whisper low enough that Dean had to lean forward to catch it.

"Because I told them that's what happened. I told them the other gun was gone."

"And they believed you? What, they just _took your word _for it, just like that." Dean laughed bitterly.

Sam lifted his head, his eyes hidden. "Yes."

The laugh died in Dean's throat.

Sam watched him silently, his body still. The fingers holding Dean's were limp and unresponsive. Dean thought back, remembered that blade flying out of the woman's hand before it could cut into Sam's neck. Flying back as if someone had _ripped_ it out of her hand.

He flopped back against the soft pillows propped up behind him. "…oh."

* * *

Dean wasn't saying anything, and it terrified Sam more than if someone had told him he had to face off with the demon again. The only source of light in the room was the creeping neon from the hallway slipping in around the edges of the closed door. It still too bright on his sensitive eyes, despite the sunglasses.

"So, you can do…other stuff. Not just the visions." Dean spoke suddenly, his eyes fixed on the bed covers in his lap. He hadn't pulled his hand away from Sam's, and Sam decided to take that as a good sign.

"Yeah, seems like. I didn't know I could do it, though. Not until one of the cops asked me what happened." Sam remembered it clearly; sitting on the front lawn, Dean passed out in front of him and dead bodies all around them like it was the final scene of some bloody and macabre stage play. The police cars had surrounded them, guys wearing uniforms and holding their guns, looking over the tableau with expressions of horror and confusion. One of them had crouched beside Dean, checking his pulse and calling for a paramedic. Trying to take him _away _from Sam. The story had fallen from his lips, and it was only after he'd finished talking that he realised every cop in earshot was nodding like that was the only possible answer for the situation, like they were all thinking _it's so obvious now_.

John had sent a brusque nod his way as they loaded Caleb into an ambulance, paramedics in every spare inch of space around the shaven-headed man.

And then a woman with a sweet smile had taken Sam's arm, asking if he had a headache. Sam had opened his mouth to say _what the hell does it matter if my head hurts, my friends could be dying_, when pain like his temples were being drilled by thousands of blades hit him, and he keeled over.

"So what's with the James Dean shades, dude? 'Cause I gotta say, the whole 'Rebel Without A Cause' thing is more my deal." Dean brought him back to the present. The other man's voice was shaky and the humour rang a little flat, but Sam smiled anyway.

"One of the doctors gave them to me. My head…they help."

Dean frowned in concern. "Are you okay, Sammy? Your…your eyes, before, they were…"

"Yeah." Sam looked down at Dean's chest, unable to meet his eyes. "The doctors examined me when we got here. They said I had high blood pressure, it caused my brain to…to haemorrhage. They said it was probably due to happen anyway, but the…the stress of the night brought it on."

Dean sat up so fast Sam instinctively leaned away, almost losing his balance and falling out of the chair. "Christ, Sam, why didn't you tell me? Are you okay? What did the doctors say?"

"I'm okay." Sam tried another smile that didn't seem to reassure Dean. "I'm gonna be fine. It doesn't really matter what the doctors said though."

"Are you kidding me, Sam?" Dean's voice raised and Sam couldn't help the wince as the sound assaulted his still-delicate head. "If you're gonna…If you're not well, then we need to know about it so we can fix you! Brain injuries are _serious_, you don't mess around with them!"

"Dean, calm down." Sam said, using his other hand to free his fingers from Dean's uncomfortably tight grip. "I know they're serious, but I _also_ know that mine wasn't caused by a medical problem." He leaned in, trying to fix his imploring look on Dean before realising it probably didn't work through sunglasses anyway. "It-it was when the woman tried to stab me. I felt something in my head snap, and then…it was like I could feel the piece of metal without touching it, like I could just pull it out of her hand and throw it away. And before, when she was about to…to hurt you, I saw it before it happened."

Dean cocked his head, the worry-lines less prominent in his face as Sam's words sunk in. When he spoke, his tone had softened a little. "What, like a vision?"

"Like a mini-vision. It showed me the immediate future, about thirty seconds before it happened." Sam ducked his head. "I think because my head wasn't used to dealing with using whatever powers I have, it just…overloaded."

Dean fell back against the pillows with an audible exhale. "Dude, you're like Superman."

The unexpected response surprised a laugh out of Sam, breaking some of the tension and fear he'd been carrying around with him. Dean smiled, a pleased expression on his face.

"Hey, don't worry kid. We'll figure this out, freaky mind powers or not. It's gonna be alright."

Sam grinned, his eyes falling closed behind the sunglasses as Dean's good hand stroked through his bangs.

* * *

Dean looked across the deserted parking lot of the Wal-Mart, watching the sun rising over the trees that cut them off from the road. The sky was washed with cotton-candy colours; soft coral pink and baby blue struck through with threads of gold. It was almost too brilliant to look at directly. Dean kept his eyes on the horizon for as long as he could, ignoring the urge to squint. Not all things in the world had to be ugly and dark.

"So, as soon as you get a lead on the demon, you'll call?" Sam's voice cut through the crisp morning air, and Dean turned to the Impala behind him. Sam was perched on the hood, his long legs dangling off the side as he talked to John. The Ray-Bans covered his eyes, although Dean suspected that the kid was only wearing them to piss him off now. He hid a grin as he strode over to the two.

"Yeah dad, don't take this on by yourself."

John sighed heavily. "Yeah, sure. I'll call you when I hear anything." The wooden box containing the Colt was clenched in his hand, its single remaining bullet loaded and ready for use.

"I mean it, dad. Call if you find _anything_." Dean said. John turned to shoot him a withering stare, and Dean felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

"D'you want me to pinkie-swear on it, too?"

Sam suppressed a laugh on the other side of Dean.

"Just…just take care of yourself, dad." Dean said, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. "And Caleb too."

Caleb caught his words, waving a hand in his direction from the front seat of John's truck as if to say he could take care of himself. The wheelchair the other man was confined to was already packed and waiting. "Yeah, and you kids look after yourselves, too. Don't want me and your daddy chasin' you down 'cause you pissed off Missouri." Caleb grinned. " 'Though, on second thought, that woman can take care of herself. You'd better watch out, Dean, she'll be after you with a spoon if you don't behave."

Dean grinned at Caleb, then turned to face his dad. The hand that wasn't tied up in the sling was pushed deep in his pocket as Dean tried to find the right words. John apparently didn't quite know how to say goodbye either, shuffling his feet in the dirt and looking uncomfortable. Finally John stepped forward and tugged him into a sudden hard hug. Dean tensed for a second before relaxing into it, closing his eyes and fisting his good hand in the back of his dad's shirt.

"I'll call you when we get there." He said as John pulled away without looking at him.

The older man met his eyes for a second and Dean's chest felt warm at the pride he saw in them.

"You do that. And take care of that kid, he's gonna need you."

John turned to Sam, gripping his shoulder before pulling him into his own brief hug. The kid looked surprised to be included, grinning broadly as he was slapped on the back. If he could see Sam's eyes, Dean would have bet they were shining with tears.

As John ambled back to his truck, Dean turned to face Sam. "So, just you and me again."

"And Missouri. You gonna be okay going back to Lawrence?" Sam asked, his head tilted to one side like an inquisitive puppy.

Dean nodded. "If she can help with your super-psychic powers, then it'll be worth it."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. Dean could feel the earnest look, even from beneath the dark glasses.

He smiled shyly at Sam, rubbing his good hand through his hair. "I'll be fine. _We'll_ be fine."

Sam smiled back. Behind them, the sun painted dramatic streaks and blazes of colour through the clouds. They lit up Sam's face and Dean couldn't look away.

* * *

Caleb grinned brightly at John as he climbed into the truck and started the engine.

The older man paused for a second, staring straight in front of him before turning to Caleb with a frown. "D'you think they'll be okay on their own?"

"It's us you should worry about, Johnny. We gotta start all over, trackin' this damn demon." Caleb said with a snort of laughter.

When John didn't look convinced, Caleb nodded toward the rear-view mirror with a small smile playing on his lips. John looked up at the scene behind him, watching as Dean hooked fingers in the front pockets of Sam's jeans and pulled him forward. Sam grinned, slipping the sunglasses off his face and dropping them to the bonnet as he slid toward Dean. Snugly fitted in the v of Sam's legs, Dean wrapped his unbandaged arm around the kid's narrow waist and held him close as his lips sought out Sam's. They kissed slow and easy, smiles on their faces that lingered. Neither seemed to notice the truck idling, nor care that they were being watched. The early morning light bathed them in a soft glow, making everything seem magical and pristine.

John watched silently for a moment. Sam nuzzled at his son's cheek with a sweet smile and Dean's eyes fell closed, his arm tightening around Sam's waist.

"Sam's a good kid, isn't he?" John said softly as he looked over at Caleb.

Caleb smiled. "Yeah, he is. They'll be okay. They've got each other."

The truck's engine roared as it pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the Impala and its two passengers behind in a cloud of dust.


End file.
